The Blessing and the Curse
by The Black Arrow
Summary: By pretending she is falling for Edward, Bella is fulfilling Esme's dying wish. But sexy, possessive Edward can read her mind. Will she ever get into his? Can Bella forget the pain of her teenage years, and can she resist his relentless seduction? AH.
1. Prologue

'**I am Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being. So don't talk of our separation again: it is impracticable.'**

**-_Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte)_**

Throughout time, as long as humans have loved, they have believed in soul mates. One person out there, tied to them, the missing piece of their soul. What else could explain that feeling of incompletion, the need to search, to scour the globe until the puzzle piece is found?

Everyone from royalty to peasants has searched, has looked into the eyes of another, wondering, is it you? Have I found you?

But fate does not intend an easy path for all. Sometimes, death interferes. Sometimes the world conspires to keep soul mates apart.

But sometimes, the bitterest pill to take is the soul mate that has been there all of your life. The soul mate who wants to consume you, to own you, to drink your strength. The soul mate that is tied to you, and you are shackled to them.

Fate dealt a cruel card to Bella Swan. This was one instance where it may have been better if the souls had never found each other, but, as always, they had been dragged together like black magnets.

On one side of the coin, it was a blessing, because Bella had her soul mate by her side since the moment she first opened her eyes on this world.

But on the flipside, the blessing was her curse: her wicked soul mate could hear her thoughts, read her like a book and use what he wished.

It took her most of her life to realize she was being conquered, and years to escape his tyranny.

As Bella drove towards Forks, her eyes trained on the horizon, she forced her mind to stop. Choice, she told herself. The greatest gift in life was choice.

She took some deep breaths, techniques taught to her by her psychologist, and stared at the purple-smudge clouds hovering over Forks like bruises. She deliberately relaxed her grip on the steering wheel, the last shaft of sunlight glinting off her bright engagement ring.

She allowed the pleasure of the lush greenery to soothe her, and wound down her window to breathe the sweet air. She tried to stop feeling like she was driving into battle. Even though she was.


	2. Chapter 1: The Cullen Dimension

**A/N: I do not own Twilight, or any of its characters, it all belongs to Stephenie Myer! Thank you to everyone who has added this story as an alert already, and to those kind souls who have reviewed. It is most encouraging! This is my debut fanfic, so be gentle, it's my first time. Just a short note to let you all know that this is going to be written in the third person, not the usual first person EPOV/BPOV. I am a bit tired of only reading first person and thought it would be much more interesting to be able to include insights that are unknown to our Bella and Edward yet. So, fear not, we will get more and more into Edward's (gorgeous but slightly disturbing) head as we progress. Thanks to my beta, bookbag, who is truly my Tyler Durden.**

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**Chapter One: The Cullen Dimension  
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Bella's car slid down the hill towards Forks like a toy train on a rail. She imagined her car was a sentient creature, that knew its way, and she smiled at the silly thought.

When she was a child, she had always fancied inanimate objects to be alive, to have personalities and opinions, purposes and fates, things that she herself was denied at every turn. She had instead contented herself with naming a tree, a chair, her bicycle, ridiculous childish names, imagining them to be her friends, aides on her quest.

When Edward had found out, she had been taunted mercilessly, and she had forced herself to abandon these thoughts.

Edward, her traitorous mind squeaked with a tinge of hysteria. Stop, she warned her mind, taking a healing deep breath and began a short visualization technique.

Her psychologist, Angela, always told her to envisage the best possible outcome instead of jumping to a worse case scenario.

Bella imagined arriving in Forks, the sun breaking through the clouds and the rain stopping. She imagined stepping out of her car, feeling the crunch of gravel in the Cullen's sweeping driveway.

She imagined walking up the stone steps to the gothic revival stone mansion, and for once it didn't look like a haunted house.  
Getting into the vision now, Bella relaxed further, picturing being met by the Cullen family in the foyer. Emmett would lift her off her feet like he always did, and she would lay her head on her shoulder and think of a bear.

Carlisle would kiss her cheeks and she would smell his distinct smell; like a musty library.

And Edward would be there, too. He would politely exclaim that it had been at least five years since they had seen each other. Six, actually, she would correct with a smile. He might joke with her about some of their childhood crimes, and as he leant down to embrace her she would feel…. Nothing. And he would hear nothing.

As they pulled away from each other, they would look at each other in relief, knowing it was finally over. They would all congratulate her on her engagement, and Emmett would go to the cellar to find a bottle of champagne.

And then, Bella would climb the stairs to the second floor, to see her Godmother Esme. She would be propped up in bed, looking remarkably well and not at all ravaged by cancer, and a dark suited specialist would exclaim to Carlisle that it was a miracle. They would all drink toasts to Esme's health, to Bella's happiness, and…..

A deer leapt nimbly out of the wet green foliage and in front of Bella's car, snapping her out of her far-fetched fantasy. She swerved sharply and let out a hollow laugh. There was positive visualization, and then there was deluding oneself. Her heart heavy, she drove onwards towards grief.

*o*o*o*o*o*o

She found the concealed driveway with no trouble. She could have found it in her sleep. Her little cream mini's nose nudged aside the ferns, and she was in _their_ world now, into the Cullen Dimension as she privately thought of it.

The drive sloped down sharply, and she lost her stomach, the world seeming to tilt on its axis momentarily. This happened to her every time.

She wondered briefly who was now living in the house she and Charlie had shared together during her childhood. It had been sold about four years ago. She felt no pang for it; she had never considered it to be her home. It had stood just outside the Cullen Dimension, separated by a thicket of trees that were almost permanently shrouded in creepy mist.

Running through the field and trees as a little girl, she had imagined that she could _feel_ the exact moment that she crossed over.

Bella truly felt privileged to have been raised as an honorary Cullen. After her mother had died when Bella was five, Charlie was completely destroyed and to this day had not recovered.

He was like a city that had been bombed, and no one could bear to rebuild. Life post-Renee held no interest for him, and he continued with his endless cycle of waking, policing the town, returning, eating, sleeping. He had been beyond grateful that Bella's Godmother (and Renee's best friend) had taken Bella off his hands. That way, he did not have to look at the tiny, worried face, the dark brown eyes that were so like her revered mother's.

He would hold out her gum boots, one at a time for Bella to thread her legs into, and she would start the long trek across the fields to the Cullens, usually carrying a satchel containing a nightgown and her school uniform.

Bella smiled as she thought of Esme. How she would have survived those post-Renee nuclear wasteland years without Esme, she did not know. Extravagant, bohemian, warm Esme. She was one of those people who exuded a light.

Bella was acutely aware of the honour bestowed upon her every time the front door was opened. Bella had always felt on the outer edge of their sphere, and even though she was included by Esme and Carlisle as if she had been their daughter, she had always felt separate; analyzing every gesture for any traces of pity.

She had realized long ago that there was one person tangled up in and inextricable from every memory of her childhood. Edward. He had been born three hours before Bella; Renee and Esme had always joked that they were twins born to different mothers.

They were born at the same hospital, and slept their first night on Earth in the hospital, in cribs side by side. They were definitely a strange sort of twins.

Bella shook off the disturbing thought as she felt her car's tyres crunching the gravel driveway, and with dizzying relief saw that Edward's car wasn't there. She let out a breath that burned her lungs like acid and felt like she had been granted a reprieve. She could pretend he didn't exist for a while longer.

*o*o*o*o*o*o

Bella tried the front door. Finding it unlocked, she stepped inside hesitantly, the nostalgia washing over her. The air tasted different inside these walls.

"Carlisle?" she called. "Emmett?" She took in the wide staircase directly before her; the dark wood paneled walls, the portraits of Cullens past.

Bella stuffed her keys into her pocket and crossed the foyer to the right, down the dark hallway, past the empty sitting room, into the sunlit industrial kitchen. Nobody. There was not a sound, apart from the tick of the clock and the drone of the refrigerator. There were some dishes in the sink.

Carlisle had told her to wait until he had spoken to her before she went up to see Esme. Bella knew this meant that Esme was very bad. That she had very little time left. Bella was amazed that she was not crying yet. She was so used to the lump in her throat she barely felt it anymore.

She stood on tiptoe, absently noticing the pots of fresh herbs on the windowsill needed watering, but could see nobody outside in the garden. Perhaps they had gone out, she thought, exhaustion gripping her suddenly like a mugger in a dark alley. She had been driving for almost seven hours.

She drank from the kitchen tap, marveling at how delicious the water in this house was. It truly was like a strange kingdom she had stumbled into. She splashed some water on the herbs. Maybe just a short lie down, she thought to herself, going back out of the kitchen and into the sitting room, collapsing on the musty chaise that had cradled her through countless childhood illnesses. She managed to toe off her sneakers. She fell asleep so instantly that it could have been a faint.

*o*o*o*o*o*o

Bella was dreaming, knew she was dreaming. She was watching her younger self and Edward, sitting on the lowest branch of a tree in the ghostly thicket of trees separating their houses. Probably seven years old.

They were holding hands, as always. People found that sweet when they were five, slightly unusual when they were ten. By fifteen, it caused a great deal of concern, and phrases like 'unhealthy bond' were tossed around. By sixteen, Edward held her not by the hand, but by the wrist, a human restraint. She could still remember the hot, electric sting of his skin on hers.

"Bella," Seven year old Edward was saying, "You are mine. You are my person. Don't argue," he added, though she had not spoken, "It won't help. I own you."

Adult Bella, watching this dream through a window in her memory, opened her mouth to scream at her younger self, scream at her to fight back, to drop his hand and sever the connection.

She watched as her younger self bit her lip, wanting to speak up, opening her mouth to speak finally to argue back but biting back the words as Edward's frown darkened. She saw his fingers digging into the back of her palm, and marveled at how strange and unnatural, yet irrefutably true his assertion was.

The dream shifted, altered, and she recognized the setting: the school gym, her junior prom. She was seeing the scene now through her own eyes, rather than an observer. Standing on the edge of the dance floor, awkward in her black sleeveless dress, waiting for hours to be asked to dance. She was supposed to be here with Edward as her 'date' (Esme had insisted) but he had abandoned her the moment they had entered the doors.

A new boy she recognized from Math class approached her, and they chatted for a moment about how he was enjoying Forks. "Do you want to dance?" He had asked awkwardly and she felt herself smile.

"No, she won't ever dance with you." Edward, materializing out of nowhere, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

As he dragged her away to deposit her somewhere else, she heard another boy's voice say, "Dude, that was asking for trouble." Bella felt the pull of his hand on her arm, like she was being dragged into a vortex.

It was her strangled scream that jolted her awake. That and the sound of a car door slamming.

*o*o*o*o*o*o

Bella leapt to her feet, wincing as her stiff back protested and went to the window.

She could see the back end of a silver Aston Martin, formerly Carlisle's car from his college days, parked half in the patch of marigolds bordering the drive. There was no movement visible. No sound from the front door. If Esme saw those crushed, muddied marigolds she would have dragged Edward over the coals.

Still no sound. Bella stood still, like a frightened rabbit. Her stomach cramped painfully in anxiety.

Hating herself, she stuffed her feet back into her sneakers, and ran through the kitchen, out into the air, and ran across the fields. Her heavy brown hair kept swirling around, obscuring her vision, causing her steps to grow irregular in the squelching wet turf.

She had no thought of deep breathing exercises, of positive visualization, of little affirmations about how she was a strong person. All her months of cognitive therapy with Angela had been leading to this moment.

But instinct had taken over, and Bella did the opposite of what she had planned to do. If he was watching from the window, which he probably was, he would see she was fleeing and he would laugh in delight.

He couldn't actually hear her mind unless he was touching her skin, and Bella had to remind herself that he wasn't some God-like, omniscient presence. He couldn't hear her thoughts as she ran through the muddy field. He couldn't reach her yet, but she knew he would soon.

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**A/N: Chapter Two, and Edward, coming very soon….**

**Please review!**


	3. Chapter 2: Startled Doves

**A/N: I do not own Twilight, or any of its characters, it all belongs to Stephenie Myer! ****Thanks ladies (and one gentleman- much love to you fanboymike!) for your support thus far. Let's get into it. Thanks to bookbag: creative consultant, evil genius and all round super beta.  
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**Chapter Two: Startled Doves  
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The air was wet and moisture beaded on her hair. She continued to run, with no particular destination. Mud squelched under her sneakers, ruining them, making her feet feel slimy and disgusting.

Bella realized she was running towards her old house, and she decided to visit it, to see if it appeared different. Slowing to a walk, her breath fogging in the chilly air, she followed the invisible trail she had taken since she was five years old.

The field was always lush, wet, with slate-grey rocks punctuating the thick pasture every ten feet or so. It wasn't the sort of pasture that could be farmed; crops would never grow in the grey clay mud and there were too many rocks anyway. Besides once being home to Edward and Emmett's childhood ponies, the field was left to its own devices.

Bella smiled to herself as she walked, remembering the summer that the ponies had arrived. Emmett, the older son and the infinitely more sensible, kind boy, had received a heavy set black pony named Jupiter, who walked slowly and deliberately, like a retired magistrate.

Edward, in contrast, had a slim, wicked grey pony named Mercury, and the two had been like one creature; of one mind when Edward rode him. Both always fidgeting, moving, watching. Bella remembered watching them gallop into the trees, leaping fallen logs as gracefully, Mercury's hooves almost soundless, disappearing into the fog like ghosts.

Mercury's benevolent, long lashed expression often duped Bella into attempting to stroke him, which usually ended in a painful nip and a torn sweater, but one time in twenty, he would rub her shoulder gently and affectionately with his muzzle.

Mercury never tired of this, and his dark, liquid brown eyes lured her in, time and time again.

Bella had discussed with Angela that she only remembered the bad times with Edward, and explained that for every bad memory, she had at least two good ones. It was just harder to remember the good times.

She sat on a log a few hundred feet from the back of her old house. The house looked in much better repair than the last time she'd seen it. There was a swing set, and she could see a woman kneeling in what looked like a vegetable patch.

She wondered if she would be that person once she was married. She twisted the ring on her finger, and smiled faintly as she thought of Michael.

He couldn't come with her to Forks, was too busy as always, and Bella didn't expect him to clear his schedule for her. He was working on a landmark court case at the moment; and as the prosecuting attorney, he couldn't very well just take a few weeks off to visit the wet, green sponge that was Forks. Mrs Bella Newton, she tried out uncertainly in her mind, trying to visualize it on paper. Mrs Newton.

Mrs Cullen, her mind countered before she could stop it. Not on your life, she told herself. She would never be a Cullen.

Once Esme died, the remaining Cullens wouldn't want her anymore, and she would be alone. Orphaned. Charlie was alive and kicking, and living out his mechanical retirement in New Jersey, but he had left her a long time ago.

Better to create your own fate, she thought, as she stood, brushing off the back of her dark jeans, once again twisting the ring on her finger. It's a better thing to choose.

She turned, and froze. She could see him standing in the clearing of trees. At least, she couldn't discern his face, but could only assume it was him. Who else would it be?

Perhaps she had known he was there all along; could feel the prickle on the back of her neck as she sat toying with her new diamond.

He was a black silhouette against the grey backdrop of trees and mist. Edward wasn't moving; probably expecting her to walk to him.

This was how it had always been, even when they had been small. Bella stood still, forcing her breath to stay steady and deep. There was no reason to panic. He no longer has any hold over you, she reminded herself.

A crow let out a long, ominous cry and Bella resisted the urge to shiver, rolling her eyes at the drama of the scene. Next thing, vultures would surely start circling, hopefully not over the ruined carcass of her self respect. Let's get this over with. She reminded herself that she was twenty six, not five years old.

Bella started the long walk to him, trying not to remember the last time she saw him. Six years ago. New Year's Day. The taste of humiliation was still faint, and she distracted herself as she trudged forward, but the memories still assailed her.

She noticed a white larkspur struggling up out of the moss. Remembered the moment of entering the Cullen's lavish party; the crystal glittering in the candlelight. The feeling of the red silk dress against her skin. The champagne in her blood, making her feel bold.

Bella blocked the memory expertly, focused her attention on the swaying tree branches. She squinted against the wet mist and saw Edward raise his hand, rub the back of his neck- the same gesture he had made when she walked in on him having sex with what she thought was her only true female friend, Alice, on her own bed. The gesture encompassed: This is me, this is what I'm like, you are forced to accept this.

Bella swallowed, mud squelching at her shoes. Ancient history. It's not like he was cheating on her; as always, he was free to do what he pleased. Not like her, she thought darkly. He guarded her from the teenage boys at school like a tiger, even the ones who had simply been trying to be her friend. Not because he had wanted her, but because he didn't want anyone else to have her.

Even as a little boy, Edward had never shared well.

Bella neared him, focusing her feet on his gorgeous leather boots, also caked in mud. Her own cream sneakers were annihilated.

She walked like a prisoner approaching the firing squad. There would be a scene, she knew, but thanked God they were about a mile away from anybody.

The fog swirled around them, and as Bella lifted her eyes to his face, the impact was as strong as a blow to her solar plexus. His sheer, otherworldly beauty was astounding. She had almost become immune, before she left for college.

Now, as always when she saw him again after a separation, she gaped at him in shock, she drank in his face again, dimly aware that her breath was shallow in her chest.

His eyes glinted dark green. His expression was a strange, dark smirk. He seemed even taller than she remembered; towering over her in his signature black; black jeans, black tshirt, black leather jacket. He looked like James Dean's demon twin.

His glorious hair was a complete nightmare as usual; caramel, bronze, chocolate, copper, thick and messy. He never brushed it. His fingers combed it when he grew angry, which was several times a day.

His beautiful mouth was twisted, as if partway through a sarcastic observation. It spread into a smile as he looked her over in return, his scorching eyes raking over her, taking in her slim legs in tight stretch jeans, her striped sweater, the puffy quilted black jacket.

He stepped closer, examining her face, his smile fading as his customary frown returned. He held out his hand.

The wind blasted them suddenly, and he spoke her name, somehow coating the word with honey and thorns. "Bella."

His hand remained outstretched. Since childhood, he had always held out his hand, expecting her to take it so he could eavesdrop. She had always been shy, unable to fully translate her tangled thoughts into words, and he had always been impatient, insatiable in his need to know _everything_. His yearbook quote was 'Knowledge is power'. It effectively summed up their childhood relationship.

Bella tucked her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, and this act of defiance deepened his annoyed expression into a terrifying scowl. He had always hated any sign of resistance from her.

"Bella," he said again crossly, "Don't be difficult." He moved closer and she could smell leather, smoke, apples, steeling herself as she anticipated his next tactic.

Sure enough, he lowered his face to hers, exhaled on her cheek, bathing her with his breath. He had been using this ace up his sleeve since they were sixteen.

It should have been tiresome, but as the goosebumps raised on her arms and the blood pulsed in her throat, it never failed to produce the intended reaction.

The worst thing about having a best friend like Edward had been that he was simultaneously her worst enemy. He manipulated every scenario into one that garnered him his desired result, and he knew from her confused, resistant mind that she found him beautiful, was bewildered by her body's response to him.

So he used that.

"Bella, you look beautiful," he breathed, his voice barely above a rough whisper, still not touching her.

She stood rigid, biting her lip and turning her face away.

"Now, now," she heard him mutter, "Aren't you going to say hello to me?" His face dropped lower into the curve of her neck, his hair tickling her exposed collarbone.

"Hello, Edward." Bella responded, amazed at how normal her voice sounded. She sounded like she was greeting a colleague or an acquaintance.

She tightened her jaw and repressed a shiver as she felt the scratch of his stubble on her neck.

"What's wrong with you?" He barked, grabbing her arm, tugging on her elbow.

She sighed deeply as he managed to wrench her hand free from her pocket, and watched detachedly as he took her hand, and his deft fingers found the ring on her hand.

He bent down, examining the ring idly, turning the diamond this way and that as he prepared to open her mind like a filing cabinet. He paused, blinked.

"What the FUCK is that?" he roared, the explosive sound of his voice causing a flock of doves to take flight from a nearby tree, tiny white flashes against the oppressive thunderclouds.

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**A/N: Please review, it thrills me! Chapter Three is coming within the next couple of days. The chapters are going to start getting longer, too. The first few are to set the tone.  
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	4. Chapter 3: Diamond Denial

**A/N: Stephenie Myer owns it all. Bookbag, my beta, owns a keen eye for an errant comma. And all the people who have added this story to alerts, and left me such kind and encouraging reviews, own ME!**

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**Chapter Three: Diamond Denial  
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"It's a ring." Bella remained calm, to her credit, as Edward seethed, his fingers plucking at the ring, examining the offending article, his expression murderous. She pictured in her mind the night that Michael proposed; the beautiful restaurant, how he had placed the pale blue Tiffany box on the side of her plate, his satisfied smile as she had said yes.

Edward threw her hand back at her as if she had burned him. "Why are you telling me that?" He hissed. "What the FUCK?"

Bella stepped back from him, put a safe distance between them, finally back in her element. She had been party to hundreds of his tantrums over the years. She knew he would never hurt her. She had witnessed first hand what he did to those who _did_ hurt her. He just needed room to allow his fury to properly detonate. She backed over to a flat, wet stone, sat and waited.

He was incredible when he was angry. He stood towering over her, blocking the light, his energy radiating from him almost visibly. The air around him seemed to crackle. He appeared to be trying to frame a coherent sentence.

"Fuck," he repeated several times, each sharper and louder than the previous. He began running his hand through his hair.

She had once told him that he looked like a vaudeville villain on a stage, tearing his hair out at particularly bad news. It was true. She winced in sympathy for his poor hair, the gorgeous thick mess being punished.

"Why are you doing this now?" He said finally, his voice like poison.

"What do you mean, doing this now?" She said, incredulous. "I haven't done anything wrong."

"You know what I mean," he countered, kicking at a nearby lump of turf, sending it flying. "This is the worst possible timing. In case you've forgotten in your _post engagement high_"- here, his voice became mocking, breathy and high pitched like a girl- "My mother is dying." He finished on a roar again, the final word hanging in the air like an ugly stench.

His chest was rising and falling rapidly, and Bella watched impassively as he worked himself into a true rage.

She could see now, after their separation, what he was doing. Her years of therapy helped her to recognize it, to understand him better. He had no capacity for vulnerability, for showing pain, and instead it was channeled into anger.

His older brother, Emmett, would be able to sit beside her, to lay his head on her shoulder, to speak the words and experience the pain, to seek comfort. But Edward could not do that. Instead, he took it out on the closest person, in this case, her.

"You idiot! You are so predictable. Picket fency Bella, wanting to wear a white veil and be the princess, baking cupcakes and cooling pies on the windowsill, and ironing whatshisname's hideous white business shirts." His green eyes were more a mossy-black as he screamed at her. He was probably tearing chunks of hair out, by the looks of it.

She spoke softly. "Edward, I'm so sorry about Esme. So, so sorry."

He whirled on her. "Don't you dare start that 'she's been like my mother' crap with me, Bella Swan. She's not your mother. She's MINE."

Bella forced herself to not cringe back as he crouched to kneel in front of her, his knee on the rock beside her leg. His body was shaking with anger.

"She's not only yours," she protested, "She's everybody's. You don't own her. She belongs to Carlisle and Emmett too. And to me, a little bit, as much as you hate it." Her voice ended on a whisper. His face was inches from hers. His pain was as palpable as his anger.

"Edward," Bella tried tentatively, her hand wrapping around his wrist. "Edward, calm down." She breathed deep, forced her mind to be calm, serene, but instead unwittingly remembered doing the same thing when they were seventeen and Edward had beaten Eric Yorkie unconscious in the car park during a school dance.

Edward's face twisted in amusement at her memory. "That'll learn him to try to make second base with you."

Bella shook her head ruefully. "I still don't understand why you did that. It was completely unnecessary. And you left me outside to wait for the paramedics, while you went inside and got a hand job from Jessica Stanley in the teacher's lounge."

Edward smiled cruelly. "I have never denied having double standards."

Bella let go of his wrist in irritation. Edward's rage was flagging now, and he twisted around to sit beside her on the rock, almost squashing her.

"And besides," Edward continued, "You covered for me very nicely. You told your dad it was some guys you had never seen before, that they jumped poor old Eric." Amusement tinged his features, and Bella knew that the outburst was over. He sagged companionably against her.

"I should never have said that. I should have let you get arrested, you horrible boy. Poor Eric. I wonder what he's up to now."

"Keeping his hands to himself, I'd wager. That, and working as a car wash attendant, or some shit."

Bella bit back a smile, and shivered at a blast of cold wind. She tugged the back of her jacket down over her exposed back.

It was lucky Michael hadn't come along; she can't imagine what he would have made of Edward. The thought of the two together in the same room was horrifying. They were polar opposites. They were from practically different species.

She had gone into Michael's office on the way out of town, to say goodbye. He had been sitting at his desk, in an ice blue shirt and immaculate pale grey suit, his blond hair carefully smoothed.

"Bella," he had said in a warning tone as she hovered uncertainly in the doorway, "I've asked you not to come here unannounced."

"I'm sorry," she had replied, "I'm just going to be gone for a while, and I wanted to say goodbye…"

Michael stood, and she thought he was coming to kiss her. Instead, he motioned her aside as one of his colleagues approached the door.

"Have a nice time," he had said, dismissing her, as he extended his hand to the man. A nice time? Was he insane? Her Godmother was dying. She had cried in her car as she drove away from the courts.

Bella realized she had been lost in her thoughts, and Edward's hand had slowly slid up under the back of jacket, stroking her skin with his cold hand. "Get out of there," she told him sharply, "Your hand is freezing."

"But you're so warm. Don't be mean." She shoved his hand out roughly with her own, twisted her hand out of his as he snatched at the engagement ring again.

"Stop eavesdropping."

"You've made a big mistake." Edward said darkly.

"I certainly haven't. Michael is a really nice guy. He's really good to me." Bella traced a crack in the rock they were sitting on with her fingertip. "He's a prosecutor."

Edward snarled. "I don't care about him. Don't bother telling me about him. It's not going to happen."

Bella stood and turned to face Edward, who slouched nonchalantly. Out of his grip, out of range of his apple scent, she allowed her mind to register his appearance again.

He had faint stubble, and his lips always looked like he had just been kissing. He lounged on the rock as though he were reclining on a feather bed. He was completely, utterly delicious.

But, she told herself as she slapped herself mentally, he was also completely dysfunctional, self centred and immature.

Still, her traitorous eyes followed the lean length of his legs as he leaned back on his elbows. His stomach looked very flat and hard under that t-shirt. Bella closed her eyes, willed herself to focus.

"I always kissed you goodbye," he said, biting his bottom lip with his white teeth and narrowing his eyes at her speculatively.

Bella snorted. "Yes, and always slightly inappropriately."

He raised an eyebrow. "Only slightly?" His dark jade eyes that missed nothing, including her inventory of his body, noted with delight the blush burned her cheeks.

Her voice was hurried as she steered the conversation back to safer terrain.

"About my engagement. I want to tell Esme. I want to have her know that someone will take care of me once she's gone." She watched her words sink in.

Edward's face darkened, his eyes flashing, and in that instant she was afraid of him. She took a step back as he slowly got to his feet.

"Firstly, you are telling her no fucking such thing."

Bella backed away further, her sneakers sucking at the ground.

"Secondly, you are going to take that revolting ring off your finger."

Bella's hand formed a fist. "I will not."

"Thirdly", he continued as if she had not spoken, "You were only asked down here so early because Esme was hoping you'd end up with me."

Bella stared at him. "That's ridiculous. She's never wanted that."

"How do you know?" Edward countered. "She never stops hinting about it to me. We had a talk about it just the other night on the phone."

Bella began shaking her head furiously. "You're wrong. You're lying. She knows we would be a disaster together."

"Would we?" He said. "I find you very attractive."

He advanced on her, vampirish in black, looking very much like he was about to suck the blood from her body. The image of his mouth on her throat flashed behind her eyes.

"Edward, you find anything breathing and female attractive."

Bella jabbed her finger at him, her frustration escalating. "It's too late. Maybe I had a little crush on you when we were kids, but I'm engaged now, and I want you to try to be happy for me."

"You'd deny Esme her final wish?" Edward's words were calculatedly cruel.

"Edward, be serious. I can see what you're doing. You can't admit to yourself that one of your 'possessions' is not yours any more."

She stepped over to him, wrapped her arms around his waist, suddenly fighting off tears.

"You're like a damn collector. She's leaving us, Edward." Bella could feel the tension in his body, and she hugged him tighter. Wanting to absorb some of his pain. His arms hung limply at his sides and he made no move to hug her back.

He spoke, his voice soft now. "She's been worried, Bella. Emmett has Rose. But I won't have anyone."

Bella rolled her eyes as she leaned back to look at his face. She could detect no trace of insincerity. Usually she could tell when he was lying. He always looked pleased with himself. Now, he just looked tired.

She suddenly noticed the dark circles under his eyes, his face just a little gaunt. Knowing Edward, he had been stewing on this, fretting over it. He probably had a huge ulcer.

"I don't believe you." She said flatly, and released his waist.

Wordlessly, he took out a small, thin mobile, selected a number and dialed. It was on speakerphone.

"Hello?" Esme's voice was faint, weak. Instantly, Edward's entire demeanor changed. He seemed to soften, and his scowl melted. His face was a mask of agonized pain.

"Did I wake you, ma?" He said, sinking back down to sit on the rock. Bella copied him.

"No, no, just lying here, looking at the clouds out the window. It's going to storm any second."

Tears began streaming down Bella's cheeks.

"Ma, I wanted to ask you something, about what we were talking about before. About Bella." His voice was light, conversational, and he shot a warning look at Bella to keep quiet.

"Oh, Bella, my beautiful Bella." Esme's voice was a bare whisper.

"You said something that was interesting to me. About how maybe Bella might be the girl for me."

"Edward, I'm so sure she is. I love her more than life." They could hear blankets rustling, settling, Bella imagining Esme rolling over awkwardly to speak conspiratorially with the telephone.

"She's got such a special energy around her."

"But do you think that she's my… soul mate?" Edward asked. Everybody knew that Esme believed fervently, passionately in soul mates.

"She is your soul mate, Edward. She was born three hours after you. It was like she couldn't bear you being in the world without her." Edward threw a triumphant look at Bella.

"She's your other half. She balances you perfectly. You are dark, and she is light." Esme laughed lightly. "I sound like a greeting card." She sighed. There was a long pause, and Edward made no attempt to fill it.

"But Edward," Esme warned, "If Bella is still seeing Michael, I want you to promise not to interfere. Promise me, Edward."

Edward laughed and hung up. He turned to Bella. "I will promise no such thing."

Bella wiped away her tears with the back of her hand and turned to look at Edward, her heart sinking. She recognized his expression from years ago. It was the same look he had shot her when teachers asked them to stay back after class, after any social function, and whenever he checked caller ID and held the phone out to her.

The look was a threatening glint in his eye, coupled with a smirk hovering around his lips. He wanted her to lie.

"What do you want?" She said tonelessly as he took her hands, pulled her to her feet.

"You're to pretend to be falling in love with me."

Bella shook her head, toed the ground with her shoe. "No."

"You're going to do it, and my mother can die in peace. Her son will be all taken care of, and she won't have to worry about you. Neat and tidy," he said to himself as he took her hand and worked the ring from her finger.

"Disgusting thing," he commented as he held it aloft. Bella snatched it before he could do something terrible, like throw it in the mud. She wouldn't put it past him.

"How long does she have?" Bella asked the dreaded question.

"One week….. two, possibly."

These horrible words echoed in her ears and made fresh tears prick the backs of her eyes.

Edward stepped close, his arms finally wrapping around her, one hand edging up under her clothes and onto her skin again. He cradled her firmly, his belt buckle pressing into her stomach. Her cheek lay on his soft t-shirt, and the smell of wet leather and his sweet scent filled her nostrils.

He always somehow fit her body against his perfectly despite being a foot taller than her. Unwittingly, her arms had risen to wrap themselves around his waist.

"We fit together well, don't we?" He muttered against her temple. She struggled, tried to push him away. She had enjoyed having some mental privacy these last few years.

"I'm sorry. I wish I couldn't do it." He said, and he truly did sound regretful. "I can't stop. I mean, I can stop, but I want to so badly. It's addictive."

"Try." She said.

"Only if you do this one thing for me."

Bella sighed. She thought of how badly she had wanted to tell Esme about Michael's proposal, to talk wedding dresses and flowers. She had thought it would have made her so happy.

"It would be terrible news for her," Edward said softly. "It would mean her last hope for me would be gone."

Bella could see that once again, he had trapped her into a corner.

"I don't mean to make you feel trapped," he said, his breath hot in her hair. "I know I do. Something about you makes me want to trap you."

"That's messed up, Edward." She managed to say.

"Will you do it?"

She said nothing for what seemed like an eternity. Finally she spoke. "As usual, you give me no choice."

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**A/N: Edward is pressing you against his wet leather jacket, and whispering hotly into your ear to review. He is shameless.**


	5. Chapter 4: Not a Toy

**A/N: I do not own Twilight, or any of it's characters, it all belongs to Stephenie Myer!! Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and added to alerts. Thank you to Bookbag, my beta- she has a brilliant, devious mind. This is a long chapter, so perhaps it would be best to make your excuses to your loved ones and lock the door. **

**After all, Edward does not like to share.  
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**Chapter Four: Not a Toy  
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They walked back to the house in hostile silence. Bella was fighting to keep control of herself, to bottle the clawing frustration, resentment, powerlessness. It was exactly like being sixteen again.

As always, he had gotten his way. He had successfully trapped her and she had allowed it. All of her therapy, preparation, years of moving on from this place, wasted. It was as if the moment she had crossed into the Cullen Dimension, she was transported back into her feeble teenage self.

Her session the previous week with Angela had been specifically to prepare for this day. The day that she saw him again. Angela's pep talk was still fresh in her memory.

"_Remember this, Bella, if you remember nothing else. You are not going to be able to change Edward; you have no control over him. He is a variable that is outside your sphere of influence._

_He may have changed, but it is more likely that he hasn't. You know who he is, who he will always be. And you have to accept that._

_But YOU have changed. You are a stronger person since I started seeing you five years ago. You are smart, and confident. You were crippled with anxiety when we first started working together. You couldn't open yourself up without fear of being hurt or used. You couldn't even talk to a man without freezing up._

_But now you have a job in your chosen field, and you're in a stable relationship with a successful man. You're leasing an apartment in a great location. You have friends who like you for yourself and aren't using you._

_Remember all of this and make sure that you control your own behaviour, and don't allow others to drive your life any more. Remember your choices. "_

Bella's mouth tasted metallic as she sludged through the field, the house looming up in the distance, shrouded in fog. If only life had a rewind button, she thought, her throat tightening with repressed tears of frustration.

She had a tendency to cry when happy, when sad, when angry. She cried when tired and cried when moved. Perhaps it was her years of repressed emotions, but these days, the tears welled up with irritating regularity and it was only the tiny muscles in her eyes stopping them sliding out, running down her cheeks.

All of her fantasies about seeing Edward again had not gone this way. Usually, when lying in bed late at night, she sometimes indulged in a small daydream that when she saw him again, he would be amazed by her strength, her success, the transformation she had undergone.

If she was honest with herself, whenever she visualized any great success, it was always Edward's face that she saw. His stunned appreciation as he watched with pride and the unmistakable regret that he had ruined things between them. Her fantasy about him crying at her wedding was a fond favourite. She wanted to triumph over him, as childish as that was.

In her mind, as she crossed the stage and accepted Pulitzer Prize for her contributions to journalism, Edward sat ashen faced and reverent in the front row. She had rehearsed a thousand different reunions over the last few weeks, as the knowledge of Esme's deterioration had pressed down on her shoulders like an anvil.

None of these fantasies had involved walking across a field, swallowing furious tears, with a Tiffany and Co engagement ring held in her fist so tightly the diamond was likely to perforate her skin. She put it into her jacket pocket and zipped it closed.

Whilst it wasn't raining yet, the air was so moist, so foggy, the storm looming so close overhead that her hair was covered in crystal droplets and her jacket was half soaked.

Edward walked slightly behind her, not touching her, and it unnerved her to see his black presence just out of the corner of her eye, like a blur, like when eyelashes stick together. Her own personal black demon. It was like everything he did was calculated to disconcert, to test, to exert control, and as she walked, and her frozen feet stumbled over tussocks and slipped into rabbit holes, the lit firecracker of fury inside her blazed into life.

Mind fucker, she thought, rage bubbling up in her throat. She would have that chiseled on his tombstone. Edward Cullen, here lies a beloved son, brother and evil mind fucker. She wondered if all of those words would fit on his tombstone. If they refused to do it, she'd chisel them herself with her bare hands. She allowed herself a small image of herself drinking a beer whilst seated cross legged on his grave, exhausted from chiseling. The picture was immensely gratifying.

Edward seemed to be having no difficulty with the slippery turf, his long legs taking one stride for each of her two. He had stepped closer behind her, and she could hear his even breathing behind her ear. She felt his hand pinch her backside, presumably in a juvenile attempt to make her laugh. She pulled up short, turned sharply, and slapped his cheek. His mouth dropped open in shock, and she turned and kept walking with as much dignity as she could muster.

Bella could see Carlisle, a small figure in the distance, waiting for them on the stone patio behind the house. They wove up through the gardens, the scents of herbs swirling around them in the increasing wind. Fat raindrops were starting to freckle the pale stone path. Bella jogged the rest of the way, and stood in front of Carlisle.

"Bella, sweetie, how are you?" He asked tenderly, wrapping her up in a hug. She relaxed against him, her cheek on his scratchy wool sweater, feeling her anger drain while the shock of his appearance reverberated inside her. Esme's illness had taken its toll on Carlisle. He looked tired and grey, and had lost at least twenty five pounds. She leaned against him, and felt him lean back.

"I'm fine. Carlisle, are you alright?" Bella pulled back to look him over again. "You're so thin."

He smiled faintly, his blue-green eyes bloodshot. "She doesn't eat, and I forget to."

Bella smiled softly. "I'm here now, so that's going to change. How is she?"

Bella heard Edward's step on the stone steps behind her. Carlisle didn't answer her, and instead smiled at Edward, held out his arms.

Bella stepped aside and watched, gimlet eyed, as the two embraced. The prodigal son had returned.

Edward usually looked almost nothing like Carlisle, favouring Esme's colouring, but he had Carlisle's height, and for a split second as they pulled back and studied each other, they looked exactly alike. Bella thought she could see what Edward would look like when he was older.

Then she realized that it was grief that was making them so alike. Edward had a reddened cheek. If Carlisle had seen her slap him, or had noted the red mark, he said nothing. Unlike his son, Carlisle was the soul of discretion.

"Shall we sit in the kitchen?" Carlisle suggested quietly. Bella and Edward tugged off their muddy footwear at the door. Bella made a mental note to throw hers away, and wondered if her old boots were still in the laundry.

They went inside, and the two men sat at the kitchen bench while Bella made three cups of cocoa, which she placed before Carlisle with care, and slapped down in front of Edward. She took the stool opposite to Edward and they all wrapped their chilled hands around the mugs.

Edward hadn't looked her in the eye since she slapped him.

"When are Emmett and Rose arriving?" Bella asked after a minute of stretched silence.

"Rose is too pregnant to fly. He's driving them down at the moment, they should arrive late tonight." Carlisle took a sip of cocoa, looked out the window for a long time. He seemed to be choosing his words. His eyes belied his heartbreak as he finally spoke, his voice flat, mechanical.

"Esme. Well. She's very bad. She's got about two weeks left, at most."

Bella glanced at Edward; his face was a beautiful, blank mask. She recognized that lack of expression; it was strange to see his face without a slight frown. This was as close to howling anguish as Edward could get. His pain was so palpable, the slight tremor in his fingers as he touched his mug, causing an unexpected surge of pity in her.

She put her anger aside, promising to return to it, and laid her hand palm up on the bench. Edward quickly flattened his own palm against hers gratefully. Carlisle watched without surprise. After all, they used to sit like that, palm to palm at the dinner table as children.

Bella was unclear how much Carlisle and Esme knew about Edward's gift. She assumed that Edward could read everybody, should he make contact with them. The minds of countless women were therefore known to him at one time.

Edward certainly gave the impression of hearing everyone. He was insufferably smug and always alluded to knowing everything about everyone when they were growing up.

"There are no secrets," he used to drawl exaggeratedly as he unearthed Emmett's personal treasures, ruined plans for secret birthday presents and exposed illicit passions and foolish crushes. He only seemed to delight in taunting Bella with his talents; with everyone else he was more discreet in his manipulation.

He had an unshakable self confidence and arrogance that had made enemies of school teachers and a legion of female followers- the Edwardians, Bella had called them scornfully.

Edward's eyes now sparkled in amusement at the memory of the nickname and took another sip of his cocoa.

No, it hadn't been funny at the time, she thought crossly. She hadn't made a female friend in years that hadn't been using her as a way to get to him. Their relationship was deemed weird and slightly incestuous by the school population- Bella always felt eyes on them as the bus pulled away from the foot of the Cullen drive and they began the walk home, hand in hand.

Bella had been painfully shy and not considered a threat by the cheerleaders and prom queens who circled like buzzards.

As these fleeting memories and images slid through her mind, she watched Edward with fascination, noticing how languid his dark green eyes were when he listened in.

The gift was not spoken of within the family, but seemed to be accepted as fact, like it was just exceptional eyesight or a talent for numbers or foreign languages.

Edward's mouth twisted; he had heard her wonder this a thousand times but never answered her.

She knew that he _could_ stop listening if he chose, if he concentrated, but he had once said scornfully that listening to her thoughts was like being addicted to a soap opera. He knew he shouldn't keep listening, but he was somehow hooked on the storyline, he had said.

He liked to listen. It allowed him to strategize.

He never revealed to her what the thoughts sounded like; whether they were just images and faint impressions, or crystal clear dialog in her own inner monolog. (She prayed fervently for the former).

Edward raised his eyebrows and raised his eyes to the ceiling in mock consideration and she dug her nails into his palm cruelly.

"Is Esme in pain?" Bella finally asked, feeling Edward's fingers tighten on her hand in return. He turned over her hand, covered it with his own palm, flattened her hand gently against the bench top. He had beautiful hands, slightly rough but warm. His hand completely engulfed her own.

Carlisle rubbed at his face. "Yes, she's in a lot of pain at the moment, though she never complains. They're still trying to work out a good level of pain medication."

He paused. "But it varies. Some days, when the weather's nice, she's well enough to sit out on her balcony in an armchair. Other days she's barely conscious."

Carlisle smiled faintly, clearly trying to put on a brave face. "She's been asking for you, Bella."

Bella took a deep breath. She was scared to go upstairs. Scared she would break down in front of Esme and upset her. This day had gone so badly already. Carlisle seemed to sense this, and regarded her kindly.

"I want you to be prepared; she looks much worse than when you saw her a couple of months ago. But she's still the same Esme on the inside. Shall we go upstairs? She'll want to talk awhile. Just pretend it's like old times."

Carlisle stood, held out his hand to her, and she slipped her free hand into his. All three linked, holding hands, they walked through the darkened house, up the stairs to the second floor, and approached the door lined with silver light at the end of the hallway.

Carlisle knocked softly, waited. Bella released Edward's hand.

The door creaked open and for a moment, Bella's eyes were dazzled. The huge, floor-to-ceiling window was blinding. The curtains were all the way open, and the turbulent clouds outside slid past like a river. Once her eyes adjusted, she saw Esme, half propped up on some pillows.

"Bella?" Esme said softly.

Underneath the soft knitted cap, Esme's once beautiful red hair was all but gone, ravaged by months of intensive chemotherapy. She was wasted and gaunt, barely a shape underneath the blankets, her eyes hollow, and her lips cracked. But as she looked at Bella, she made an attempt to smile, and raised one hand slightly off the bed.

She was still utterly beautiful, graceful, her light still burning.

Bella felt her eyes fill with tears, and bit her lip, awkward. Her beautiful Esme, who had plaited her hair, attended parent teacher conferences and tucked her in. Fading away from the world, leaving Bella alone and cold. There would be no one left to love her now. Bella felt wobbly, unsure of how to react, what to say.

Edward saved Bella, stepping out of the dark hallway and wrapping his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. "We're both here, ma. And Emmett and Rose will be here soon, too."

Esme's face was radiant. "Come here, darlings," she said softly, closing her eyes briefly.

Edward moved Bella forward around the bed, stopping her by the side of the bed. He twisted her, sat her on the edge of the bed. They got into bed with Esme, with Bella in the middle. Carlisle sat in the armchair beside the bed.

"Well now, this is snug." Esme said faintly, amused. Bella buried her face into the pillow beside Esme's neck, her hot tears soaking into the pillowcase.

"Don't cry, darling," Esme said softly. "There's no reason to cry."

Bella wrapped her arm gently around Esme, and cried anyway. Edward wrapped his arm around both of them, spooning Bella, and they all lay there in silence for a long time.

The combination of Edward's amazing apple and cocoa scent, and the smell of Esme's powdery skin, imprinted the moment in her memory.

She captured the moment in time, filed it away. She vowed to always remember this.

Edward, running his finger along the inside of her arm, felt the intensity of the moment doubly, through his own experience of it, as well as by seeing it through Bella's eyes. He closed his eyes tightly against the overwhelming pain and beauty.

But on another plane in his mind, and ever the narcissist, he consoled himself that he had been in her thoughts, and that he smelled so good.

"I'm sorry," Bella finally managed. "I just missed you so much."

Esme's soft, motherly voice was soothing and low. "Did you darling? I missed you too. Even though I only saw you a couple of months ago. Now, tell me, how is work going?"

Bella rolled onto her back, sandwiched between the two, Edward's chin on her shoulder and his breath drying her tears.

"Work is going OK, I guess. I have a month off." She worked as a court reporter- it was where she had met Michael. Edward drew in a cross breath at this thought.

"It's going fine. I'm just a bit sick of writing about violence." If she were honest with herself, she hated her job. It was destroying her. Nothing she could pinpoint, just a general decaying of her soul.

She folded away the thought expertly before it unraveled in her mind. Compared to this unbearable pain, her existential crisis was as insignificant as a pebble in her shoe.

"And Edward, darling, are you still working for the New York Times?" Esme asked, never able to keep track of where he worked.

"No, I'm freelancing at the moment. I got back from Afghanistan three weeks ago."

Edward was a photographer. Bella had heard all about his foray into war photojournalism, both from her weekly emails from Emmett, and also from seeing his photos in Time magazine.

His ability to make a shot of the ordinary into piece of art was incredible. He seemed to see the world in a different way to ordinary people, and it came through in his work. His war photographs were not the usual shots of human misery and grateful villagers and raised flags. The series that was featured in Time captured the strain on the soldiers.

Each shot was imbued with loneliness, longing, the marking of time. Bella had cried at the one image of the young soldier, cradling a photo of his newborn son as though he were holding the child himself. The poignancy reverberated in the black and white image.

From the Time series, Edward was nominated for a Brownson, a prestigious International photography prize. Knowing Edward, he probably didn't give a shit. She felt his mouth curl into a smile on the side of her neck.

"Well, I'm glad you're back. It's dangerous over there." Esme was beginning to sound more like her old self. Motherly. All knowing.

Edward slanted her a look over Bella. "I wasn't in any danger."

Bella laughed softly. "Of course, Esme, don't worry. He's bulletproof, remember?" He pinched her stomach in retaliation.

"And how is… Michael, isn't it? The man you were dating a few months ago?"

The silence stretched on as Bella struggled to think of what to say. She was a hopeless liar. The wind buffeted against the window.

"They broke up." Edward crowed, not even attempting to conceal his triumph. Bella frowned but said nothing.

"Oh dear. He was such a nice young boy." Esme turned her face towards Bella, her eyes kind. "Are you terribly sad?"

"Um, no. He, uh, didn't have enough time for me." It was the first thing she could think of.

"Well, I never thought he was the right one for you anyway. He wasn't good enough for you. Almost no one is." Esme's voice was starting to fade, her eyelids drooping softly.

Edward smiled wickedly, and Bella caught Carlisle's suspicious look.

"Ummm. Well, I don't know about that!" Bella joked lamely. Edward's hand was sliding up under the hem of her sweater, and she forced herself to lay still.

"It's true. You are special, and you need a grand love. True love."

Bella swallowed as Edward's hand slid higher, across her quivering stomach, his finger tracing the underwire of her bra. His fingers were hot. He was going to pay for this. He laughed evilly.

"Edward, I know that laugh. Are you tormenting Bella?" Esme chided as her eyes drifted closed. "You must stop it. She's not a toy."

Although she had told him this a million times over the years without effect, this time Edward's hand froze on her ribcage, and he withdrew his hand abruptly.

He swallowed audibly. "We'll let you sleep, ma. We're both here to stay now, so we'll see you when you wake up."  
Esme's mouth lifted slightly at the corners as she slipped deeper into sleep.

The bed was so warm, Bella didn't want to get out. Her feet were only just starting to thaw. Michael had been working such long hours, and he had taken to sleeping in their apartment's spare bedroom. So he didn't disturb her when coming home late, he said.

Actually, they hadn't had sex in nearly three months, which she didn't actually mind. Sex with Michael was perfunctory, a polite exchange. God, she was glad Edward wasn't listening. She really needed to start controlling her thoughts better.

He was making no move to get up, and was lying on his back, the heat of his body engulfing hers.

Bella climbed over Edward, briefly straddling his torso, ignoring his gleefully wiggling eyebrows, and slipped as she tangled her leg in the sheet. Gracelessly, she fell and twisted, landing hard on her back on the floor, wrenched from the heavenly plush eiderdowns and the beautiful scents of those she loved best.

As the breath was knocked out of her, she couldn't help but think that this would be what it would be like when Esme died. As the tears started to sting yet again, and she gaped frantically for breath, Edward's face appeared above her. His brow was creased, and as he looked her over with real concern, she wanted to cry harder.

But then his eyes sparked with amusement, and he started laughing. His cackles rang in her ears as Carlisle rushed around and helped her to her feet and walked her down the stairs to her room on the first floor. He was such an asshole.

It hadn't changed a bit. It was called the white room, and it had always been Bella's room. She sat on the antique double bed, feeling the familiar old mattress dip, willing her to roll into its ravine- like cradle. It was against one of the coconut white walls, and together with the white lamp, the rugs and the curtains, she had always been reminded of Narnia. The effect was further enhanced by the huge wooden armoire on the far wall.

Edward's bedroom was at the end of the long hallway. His was the gold room. The white room was currently freezing. Carlisle had gone to try to fiddle with the thermostat.

The door banged open abruptly, and Edward strolled in.

"That was priceless!" He snickered, evidently still laughing about her fall. He kicked the door shut behind him.

"Shut up," she hissed furiously. "I could have hurt myself. I could have broken my neck for all you knew."

"Let Doctor Edward take a look." He rolled up his sleeves exaggeratedly, rubbing his hands together as he advanced on her. Dressed completely in black, he was almost a silhouette, a cut out shape in the ice white room.

"Please knock next time, by the way," she told him, scooting to the far side of the bed, against the wall, out of his reach.

"I could have been getting changed or something."

"Oooh, I'll definitely never knock then." He laughed mockingly.

"Be serious for once, Edward. This whole… Plan… is ridiculous. You heard Esme yourself; she was sorry I had broken up with Michael. I want to tell her the truth."

Edward put his knee on the bed and started to crawl towards her, his face from mirth to menacing in the blink of an eye.

"You will not."

"But you heard her…" Bella sat with her back against the wall, her heart starting to quicken.

"I heard her say that almost no one is good enough for you. What she meant was, the only one good enough for you is me." Edward lay down heavily on his stomach, face down in her lap. "You have to keep pretending."

He paused, his voice muffled in her thighs. "Or at least START pretending, for Christ sakes. You have to stop crying, and start acting like you're into me."

He rolled over, closed his eyes, and Bella stared down at his face, her hair curtaining around them. He sighed, his restless body finally still. She lay her hands on his temples. She rarely saw him like this. Relaxed, and not angry.

"You relax me," he told her. She couldn't imagine how; most of his life had been dedicated to guarding her, possessing her, which must have taken a huge amount of energy.

"Especially when you got tits," he said huskily. "I was beating those asswipes at Forks High off with a stick."

He always said things like that and Bella knew better than to be flattered. His mouth was as soft and as she smoothed her fingers over his brow. She wondered at how he did not have frown lines by now. He traveled all over the world, had experienced so much, yet his face was unlined, his skin a confection of golden white.

His beauty pierced her and she snatched her hands away. He could only hear if their skin touched. Still, he had heard a trace of the thought, and he opened his eyes.

"Thank you. You're looking pretty good yourself." He gazed at her speculatively, and she realized she was close enough to see the tiny yellow flecks around his pupils.

Exasperated, she shook her head at him.

"Look, there's going to be no problem acting like we're falling in love." Edward propped himself up on one elbow, put his hand on the back of her head, drew her face down to his.

"See, like this." He touched his lips to hers, and the electrical charge between them made her draw back in fright.

"Interesting…." He observed, his eyelids drooping sexily, licking his lips.

"I didn't hear you so well then, I wasn't concentrating. I wonder what you thought of that. Try again." He tugged softly on her hair and the pleasure of his fingers sliding, twisting gently into her hair and against her scalp made her eyes flutter.

He had kissed her several times during their teenage years, experimentally, and she had almost forgotten what it was like. Like every atom in her body had simultaneously vibrated. She pulled back.

"No, Edward, I'm engaged to Michael. I have made a commitment to Michael."

Her voice shook with conviction, and Edward's eyes darkened. He wrapped an arm around her waist, dragged her across his body and rolled smoothly to pin her on her back. She was alarmed to feel his hard erection pressing against her thigh, and she struggled, imprisoned under his heavy, muscled body.

"Stop saying shit like that. You know it makes me mad." He growled roughly against her neck.

"It's always made me mad. You're not for anyone else; you're for me. And you're not going to be able to remember that jerkoff's name by the time I get through with you." As his velvet tongue slid down her neck, and Bella felt her nipples tighten in response, alarm bells began to sound. She was in trouble.

"You sure are," he agreed, sucking lightly on her collarbone, his soft, full lips dropping open mouthed kisses.

His fingers were inching her sweater further down her shoulder. She wrapped her hands around his wrists, in a feeble attempt to push him off, but he gently entwined his fingers in hers, lifting her arms above her head as he thrust his hips against hers, causing her to react mindlessly; to arch infinitesimally against him. Her brain whirled as he nibbled on her black bra strap, his stubble scratching softly on her shoulder.

This was getting out of control, fast, and her inner voice of reason was rapidly fading; probably hopelessly seduced as well. He was dominating her, pressing her down onto the soft bed, and she raised her hand to his head, into the luxurious hair at the nape of his neck. Her breath was coming in strangled gasps, and she forced her mind to think. She should stop this, _could_ stop this, she ordered herself in desperation.

"No, don't stop this," he whispered, his tone a broken plea she had never heard before as he framed her shoulders with his hands, using his knee to part her legs. He pressed his thigh against her; she was sure he would be able to feel her heat through her jeans.

"Mmm-hmmm," he affirmed huskily. "It's delicious." He pushed against her again slowly, deliberately, bracing himself over her on his forearms, his open mouth on her temple. If they were naked right now, he would be sliding inside her.

"I am finally going to have you," he whispered, his breath growing ragged as he flexed his hips against hers, their bodies seeking friction, and Bella's stomach clutched in response. The insane, dizzying pleasure was completely clouding her brain. She knew this was wrong, but was powerless to stop as the tidal wave of lust crashed over them, consuming them. She felt her underwear growing damp.

Edward groaned, his erection almost painfully hard against her. His mint green eyes were so close to hers, and his eyes dropped to her lips, flickered back to her eyes, and then began lowering his mouth to hers. She knew that once she tasted his mouth, there would be no stopping, no turning back. They would have sex, right here, probably within minutes of this kiss.

The anticipation of pleasure hummed in her veins and suddenly she was ravenous for him, to taste him, to consume him. This was a strange, alternate universe she had stumbled into, suspended in white, pressed down by black. It was so close to her darkest, wettest fantasies, there was no right or wrong.

This simply was.

A sharp knock on the door made her start in panic. She froze.

"Bella?" Carlisle's voice was soft from the other side of the heavy door. "Bella, do you want to come downstairs for something to eat?"

She opened her mouth, drew in a breath that couldn't reach her lungs.

"Tell him you'll be down in an hour, you're just having a bit of a lie down." Edward rasped, his delicious breath bathing her lips. He licked her bottom lip, causing her to shudder delicately.

His eyes found hers, and it was the amused triumph in them that brought her crashing back to Earth. She had seen this expression before countless times, as he climbed in through her window in their teenage years, reeking of cheap Revlon perfume.

"I'll be right down, Carlisle," she finally found her voice. Edward closed his eyes, his hands on either side of her face curling into fists.

"Alright, if you see Edward, tell him the same." Carlisle's footsteps retreated.

"I'm not doing this with you." She told him shakily, sliding out from underneath him. "I can't do this. I'm not just a toy for you to play with." She echoed Esme's earlier words, pulling her clothes back into place.

"Cockblocked by my own father…" Edward muttered in disbelief, as she staggered across the room and left him, lying there face down, his face buried in her pillow.

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**A/N Edward is putting his knee on the edge of your bed, and is crawling towards you, growling at you to review and put him out of his misery. Reviews are very gratifying for Edward. **


	6. Chapter 5: Armchair Confessional

**A/N: I do not own Twilight, or any of it's characters, it all belongs to Stephenie Myer!! Thank you to bookbag, my wonderful beta, who spends an inordinate amount of time workshopping with me in the Realm of No Wrong. I am in awe of her. I owe her stacks of pancakes. **

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**Chapter Five: Armchair Confessional**

Bella hurried down the hallway, panting, away from Edward who was still lying, groaning and complaining, on her bed in the white room.

Her blood pulsed hotly in her veins, her skin hypersensitive, the air chilling the skin his mouth had heated. She paused in front of the speckled antique mirror at the top of the stairs, her mouth dropping open in alarm at her reflection.

Edward's hands had tangled her hair into wild, twisted sex hair. She shakily combed the thick brown mass into some sort of order with her fingers, wound it all into a messy knot. Her mouth was swollen and pink, even though they had only briefly touched lips, and her pupils were so dilated her eyes were almost black.

She stared at her reflection, barely recognizing herself, brushing her lips with shaking fingers.

She ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time, her thoughts jumbled and disjointed. God knows what would have happened if Carlisle had not knocked. She couldn't stop her brain from conjuring up all the possibilities; nearly all of them utterly pornographic. Her stomach fluttered at the thought. She paused at the foot of the stairs to catch her breath.

Deep breath in, hold, breathe out. Repeat. Her cheeks were burning hot.

Bella ducked under the stairs, to the little hiding place that she, Edward and Emmett had favoured as children. There was still a big, square cushion there, and she curled up tightly, wrapping her arms around her legs.

She would have dinner with Carlisle soon, but first she needed to get herself together. She doubted she would be able to form a coherent sentence right now.

She cringed as the surreal scene on her bed replayed on a loop in her head. Hands, lips, tongue, teeth. His flavour was still tangible, on the tip of her tongue, the sweet perfume of his lips traced over her neck and shoulder. She was dragging his scent into her lungs with each breath.

She had just come very close to being unfaithful to Michael. She was a cheater. Well, maybe not exactly a cheater, because she hadn't instigated the kiss. And it only lasted a fraction of a second. Maybe that didn't count?

But she was making excuses, and the fact remained that she hadn't been very effective in putting a stop to Edward's other attempts at seduction. She had been on the cusp of pushing him onto _his _back, straddling his hips, holding _him_ down, ravaging _him_.

Her body, which she had been on polite terms with for so long, was now aching and shameless, begging her to stand up, return upstairs, and rip the cotton t shirt from his torso, toss the shreds on the floor, hold his hands over his head.

Cheater, she reprimanded herself harshly. Well, nearly. She worried back and forth over this for quite some time, wondering if this was the sort of thing one discussed with a fiancé. Was she obliged to report this incident? She tried to imagine that excruciating conversation, and also tried to imagine how she would react if roles were reversed, and Michael had been rolling around with a childhood friend.

Bella was surprised to realize that it didn't even cause a pang inside her. That was probably because their relationship was so solid, so mature and steady, she reassured herself. Her capacity to feel jealousy, ownership, was long burned out of her.

She checked her cell phone out of habit; Michael had still not responded to her earlier text. She shoved it back into her pocket, put her face into her hands, closed her eyes against the images of Edward crawling across her bed, tried to remind herself that he was just playing his favourite game. She sat, wrapped up in herself, breathing the dust and memories under the stairs.

*o*o*o*o*o*o

Edward had plenty of practice at this particular pastime, and rumour had it that he excelled. During their adolescence, he had worked his way diligently and somewhat methodically through the extremely willing female Forks population. Classmates, friends' sisters, substitute teachers, French tutors- each became a notch on his wearied bedpost and a small fissure in Bella's heart.

She knew he would never be faithful to anyone, let alone someone as plain and average as she was. She had heard these exact words spoken from the mouth of a girl crying in the locker rooms. What did he see in Bella Swan, the girl had cried scornfully, while her friends tried to console her. Bella had hid in a stall, fully clothed, until they had gone.

Bella had chosen to stand on the sidelines of Edward's life. While he always returned to her, was her best friend, her confidant, her protector and her jailor, she always knew she would never be able to capture him in return. So, she locked away that foolish part of her heart, and froze it off, and tried not to think of it lest he heard the thought.

Sometimes she tried to console herself that he must somehow love her best, as he crawled into her bed, smelling like winter air and liquor and campfire smoke, falling asleep almost instantly, curled around her with his fingers entwined in hers. She knew he loved her, but wasn't sure if it was enough. Was it love like a twin, or love of convenience? She never knew. She had been doomed to never be satisfied.

And unsatisfied she was. Bella spent high school untouched, untouchable, sexually frustrated and occasionally a target for Edward's scornful seduction. He knew that his lean, muscled body and heavenly scent provoked a strange tangle of unlabelled emotions and lust, and took to flirting heavily and attempting liberties whenever he was bored or so inclined.

Puberty had been kind to Bella, and she had bloomed into a fragile beauty, with milk-white skin and delicate pink stained-glass blushes. Her figure had gone from featureless to surprisingly lush curves within a few months before her sixteenth birthday. Nobody had been more astonished or fascinated than Edward, and she became clumsy under his intense, moss green stare, her cheeks almost constantly burning pink as his hands lingered on her waist as they walked down the hall at school.

If she had known at the time that even walking down the hall would cause boys to hold their breath and furtively catalog her movements with undetectable, lightening fast glances, she would have never been able to leave the bathrooms from mortification. Her suddenly rounded hips, backside and breasts had suddenly made her an imaginary participant in dozens of sweaty pubescent male fantasies.

Edward cataloged each flickering glance coldly, and was torn between flaunting his good fortune and wrapping her with a woolen blanket.

The majority of the girls at school- the Edwardians- told themselves that they did not understand her appeal; _they_ could not see anything special in plain old Bella Swan. She only wore jeans, and didn't dye her hair. She read books at lunchtime while sitting alone in the bleachers, with Edward's jacket around her shoulders, while Edward played various sports with varying levels of intensity, or while he skulked and smoked with friends at a distance.

If Edward and the boys at school were watching Bella, the Edwardians were analyzing Edward with surveillance powers that rivaled state security. They would have used an ankle bracelet to track him if they could.

In a small town like Forks, where the newspaper front pages proclaimed record logging profits, the Edwardians had a lot of time on their hands. They watched in the afternoon as Edward and Bella walked alone towards the bus stop.

They sighed as he lifted a hand, twirled Bella as though partway through a dance, heard Bella's clear, lovely laugh. Look at how he lifted her hair from her neck, kissed her nose and eyelids so slow, so soft, as she clutched at the front of his jacket. Lucky bitch. Wonder what he's saying to her. He was so gorgeous. So charming. So romantic.

The Edwardians had initially assured themselves that Edward was protective of Bella in a brotherly way. This position was amended when it was granted that brothers did not walk with their fingers in their sister's clothing, not in this State anyway.

She must be his girlfriend, they debated as they painted their toenails coral during inane giggling sleepovers. Why else would he get into fights and be suspended from school over her? Bella was deemed the passive sort of doormat that would tolerate some cheating on his part.

She seemed so indifferent to him anyway, Lord knows how. It was impossible.

The look on boys' faces as they edged around Bella in the cafeteria, eyes carefully averted, was more reminiscent of animals edging away from a claimed territory. They understood.

Bella had actually managed a few flirtations and mild crushes before Edward intervened; usually lasting only a day or two before her mind accidentally strayed to these thoughts while he was stroking her neck on the bus, or their fingers entwined as they made the long walk from the foot of the driveway to the Cullen house.

His reaction would vary: sometimes he would laugh, sometimes he would explode.

His worst possible reaction was silence.

*o*o*o*o*o*o

Here, under the stairs, Bella cringed away from the insidious, bitter memory, but it wisped into her mind and put a layer of sickness in her stomach, as if it had happened only yesterday, not nearly ten years ago.

_He entered the white room without knocking, without looking at her directly._

"_When they ask, I was in here all night, writing my paper on the Industrial Revolution." Edward threw himself down onto her bed, letting out a deep sigh, leafing through a battered textbook. Bella's heart jolted in her chest at the sight of his swollen hand, the dried blood. It might actually be broken this time. _

"_Edward, you cannot keep doing this," she whispered urgently, pleading, standing over him with a roll of gauze. _

_He glared up at her and held out his hand. "I have to do this."_

Such disturbing vignettes only showed half of Edward's soul, the half that lay in shadows. But Bella had a million beautiful memories of him that laid bare the light of his soul, moments that allowed her to glimpse his fathomless depths, his unshakable love. How deeply he felt each and every emotion that blew through his body like hurricanes, eruptions, quakes. It hurt too much to remember the good memories. They pierced too deep.

Edward's uncontrollable desire to completely possess those that he loved was both his best quality and his worst fault.

His love, once earned, was depthless, permanent, intense, and he loved few- probably because he simply had no more energy. But his drive to own and control was exhausting.

His eternal vigilance cost him dearly. As a little boy, he used to study Esme as she hugged Bella- did she love Bella more than him? Was Carlisle spending more time with Emmett? Why would Emmett rather hang around with his baseball friends than him? Why would Bella tell Emmett things, and not him?

Jealousy made him near impossible to live with. It was only his family, and Bella, who could properly understand him, could see the love beneath the control, and work out ways to deal with his irrational heart.

Bella emerged from under the stairs, sufficiently calmed down and hoped fervently she still didn't look like Porno Bella. She padded down the hallway in her socks and found Carlisle in the kitchen. He was putting the finishing touches on a vat of spaghetti.

"Ah, there you are," he said, smiling. "Did you see Edward?"

Bella edged forward and perched on a stool at the table. "No, I didn't see him."

"What a liar," Edward countered as he skidded into the room in his usual burst of energy. "I was nearly getting a kiss off her when you banged on the door."

Bella's face burned and she wearily put her face in her palms.

"He's joking, Carlisle," she eventually managed. How mortifying.

"I never joke about such things," Edward countered cheekily, and she glowered at him through her fingers.

Carlisle frowned at Edward. "Stop taunting her, Edward."

"Oh, but I've only just gotten started taunting her. I'd forgotten how enjoyable it is." Edward hooked a leg around the stool next to Bella's, dragged it closer to her, and sat, his thighs framing hers. He took her hand and massaged her bare ring finger, smiling faintly. Bella could see signs of strain around his eyes. He looked tired.

Carlisle shook his head, expertly dividing the spaghetti between three plates, somehow doing the task so neatly the steel bench top remained immaculate.

"I will never understand you two. Bella, all I can do is apologize as always for my insufferably smug, sleazy son."

Bella accepted her bowl of spaghetti and grinned at Carlisle. "If I had a dollar for every time you've said that to me…" she snorted.

"You'd have, what, one fucking dollar. Look," Edward said, his leg jiggling as his irritation spiked, "I've changed. I'm not that guy anymore."

Carlisle burst out laughing. He sounded like he hadn't used his laugh in a long time; it was a rusty sound and he cleared his throat immediately after it. "Edward, I'll believe that when I see it."

They all twirled spaghetti on their forks in silence, each thinking separate thoughts.

Bella's thoughts were still all tangled. She had no idea if Edward could ever change. She supposed that she was just a big joke to him; he would drop her the moment she was no longer useful as usual.

She wondered at the spark she had felt when their lips had briefly touched. Wondered what her mind sounded like to him. Longed for Emmett and Rose to arrive, so there would be more people in the house, less opportunity to be caught alone.

Carlisle was noticing how Edward always wrapped his body around Bella's, and remembered the concerned discussions they had had with Chief Swan back when the kids were teenagers. How his worst nightmare had been Edward impregnating Bella under his roof. How his attempts at chaperoning and keeping them apart had been futile against Edward's relentless scheming and scary intelligence.

He set down his fork, remembering the doomed attempt to send Bella to boarding school. He and Esme had even paid half of Bella's tuition for the term- it was the least they could do. Their son was consuming her, and she needed at least a chance to get free of him. Edward still managed to sabotage this move, and Bella was returned to them.

The conversations- apologies- with Charlie after that particular incident were still mortifying for Carlisle to recall.

He watched Edward, who watched Bella.

Edward was strategizing, as always, and occasionally putting his finger on Bella's inner wrist under the table, as though checking her pulse, savouring the delicious flavour of her thoughts and filing away her questions about him for future use. The years they had been apart had simultaneously changed nothing, and yet he was in unfamiliar territory.

The sight of that engagement ring had almost stopped his heart in his chest. He wasn't totally clueless; he hadn't expected her to _wait_ exactly. He had just thought that it would be easier to pick up where they left off; that the connection between them would make her walk away from anyone else, back to him.

She should only ever be walking to him.

*o*o*o*o*o*o

They spent the rest of the evening in the sitting room. Esme was sleeping. Carlisle went upstairs to sit with her. Bella sat, reading her old copy of Wuthering Heights in the squashy green armchair. She glanced at her watch, wondering if it were too late to call Michael.

Edward was at the dining table, his laptop on, and appeared to be working through a series of photographs, sorting them into different folders.

"What will you work on next?" Bella asked.

Edward let out a dark sigh. "I'm going to do an Italian Vogue shoot. I want quick money right now, but I'd rather take shots of a village being bombed than a weird editorial of seven foot women wearing fucked up dresses made of picnic rugs."

Bella laughed, stretched in her chair. "But surely being surrounded by models is some small consolation."

He said nothing, just frowned and continued flicking through images quickly.

"Are you seeing anyone at the moment?" Bella asked, not sure if she wanted to know, but also knowing that perhaps they could get back to some sort of neutral ground. He needed to remember that despite participating in this charade for Esme's sake, she was unavailable. Maybe he was too, and she could remind him of it.

"Not really. For some reason, the last one got annoyed when I left during the night to get a flight to Sri Lanka." He slapped shut the laptop abruptly and crossed the room to sit on the little sofa on the other side of the fire, opposite her.

"Not even a twelve page spread with shots of Tamil Tigers headquarters could convince her I wasn't cheating." He slipped down to lie flat, hanging his legs over the arm of the sofa. He considered this.

"Even though I was, actually." He smiled and closed his eyes. Bella shook her head. Nothing about him would shock her.

He had changed into pyjamas; thick, soft black flannel pants with skulls and crossbones ("very hardcore" commented Bella. "Fuck you" he had countered good humouredly), black waffle weave long sleeved top, no socks.

His hair was lit bronze by the fire light. Bella had changed into black leggings and an oversized grey t-shirt she wore to yoga sometimes. She had given up trying to adjust it; it kept slipping off one shoulder. She had on thick socks. Her hair was still in a knot on top of her head.

"You look like you're going to a ballet class," Edward said after a while. Bella smiled, still reading, and pointed her leg out, toe straight, like a ballerina. Silence continued, punctuated by crackles from the fire, the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.

Bella found it increasingly hard to read with Edward staring at her. He huffed and sighed several times and stretched, seeking attention. Bella continued staring at the page, hoping she looked like she was reading.

"Stop reading that for the billionth time. Talk to me." His legs swung in irritation. "Why haven't we seen each other for six years?"

Bella closed the book, studied the back cover, tried to think of what to say.

"No editing, Bella Swan, you know I hate that. Come here." He patted the sliver of couch beside him.

"No, Edward. I'm used to having some privacy these days."

"I'll be good. I won't peek." He smiled innocently.

"Edward, you can never help yourself."

She pulled her engagement ring out; it was on a chain around her neck. Edward's expression turned livid. She smiled.

"Don't say anything, Edward. I'm entitled to wear this."

"Why are you engaged? Is it because of me?"

"Edward, not everything in this world is about you." Bella ran the ring along the chain, irritated with his self obsession, deliberately antagonizing him. He watched the movement.

"It should be." He paused. "Yours should be."

"Ha! That's always been part of your problem." Bella held out the ring, examining it in the firelight, watching the depths sparkle and dance.

She knew she was being cruel, but finally having something over him was making her feel powerful, bold.

"Oh, I have a problem do I?" Edward hauled himself up off his sofa, crossed the short distance to her, knelt in between her legs in front of her armchair. He took the ring out of her grip and pulled it.

The fragile chain gave easily. His eyes widened, and then he laughed. She gaped at him, grabbed wildly for it as he held her back. He swung the ring back and forth.

"Edward, that hurt!" He continued to swing the ring mockingly, though his hand did rub the slight sting on the back of her neck in silent apology. How his fingers were so hot in such a cold room, she didn't know.

"I have a problem, you were telling me. Pray, enlighten me."

"You know you have a problem." She unsuccessfully tried to shrug out from under his hand.

"Of course I've got a problem, Dr Phil. My mother's fucking dying. Very fucking insightful."

"But are you happy, aside from that? How is it possible that you are? You're still self obsessed. You haven't grown up one day since I left."  
Bella sat back, her voice quiet now. His fingers slipped from her neck.

"I'd be a lot happier if you'd call this Michael fucker, and tell him it's over. I'd be a lot happier if we went and buried that ring in the garden, and went up to my room and had sex fifteen times." His eyes went black, and they held each other's gaze.

He wrapped his hand around her neck again as the image of them, naked on his bedroom floor, flashed through her mind. His mouth on her stomach. Her legs wrapped around his hips. Against the wall. Windowsill. Balcony. Bed. Tearing cloth.

"Your fantasy seems vaguely accurate," he said, his voice rough in her ear.

"When I have you at long, long last," his lips found her earlobe, sucked it softly with his beautiful mouth, "I won't have to stop myself- Like I've been stopping myself for the last decade. Do you know how good it will be? Experiencing your pleasure, through your mind and your voice? It's going to be incredible…"

His hand slipped down, cupping her breast, his thumb pressing down lightly on her hard nipple, making her jump slightly at the spark as he simultaneously scraped her earlobe softly with his teeth.

"I'll know what you want before you will." His erection ground into her inner thigh, hard and heavy.

Bella made one final stab at sanity. Before he took her, right here on this armchair, with Carlisle likely to walk in at any moment. Her breath was ragged; her pulse pounding in her ears. His fingers were already sliding over her, one finger tugging at the waistband of her leggings.

"Edward, if you're going to be ridiculous, I'm going to go find a hotel to stay at while I'm here." Bella pushed him back, pointed at her ring that was discarded on the rug.

"Give me your phone. I'll ring him myself." His eyes gleamed, and lowered his mouth to hers, licking her bottom lip. His breath bathed her face. Before she could draw a proper breath, he lowered his mouth to hers again, and finally kissed her properly.

The pleasure was indescribable. His mouth was hot and tasted like him; spicy apples. His plump lower lip expertly nipped and toyed, sucking her lower lip in between his, causing a breathless moan to shudder from her. She felt him half smile, and he moved closer, preparing to kiss deeper, to stop teasing. His large hands cupped her jaw, and her body reeled as the concentrated intensity of a lifetime of lust flamed into one kiss.

She felt like she was spiraling down into black. He slanted his mouth across hers, his teeth scraping her bottom lip. Her mouth opened as she frantically gasped for air, tasting only him, and he groaned into her, sliding his velvet tongue against hers.

She wasn't even aware that her hands had risen, and she was twisting her fingers in his hair, tugging at the thick silk, alternately pulling him away, and pressing him closer. Her body pulsed in agonized need, clouding her mind, causing her to move against his erection again, seeking friction.

Edward thrust against her open thighs obligingly, wildly frustrated, wanting to tear away the layers of fabric, to finally feel her, finally slide into her. He slid one hand down to the waistband of her leggings again, trying to drag the stretchy material out of the way, fighting the inner voice that told him to rip. His need was painful; his cock seemed to throb in time with her ragged breathing.

He deepened the kiss, trying to decide what she tasted like. Cupcake icing, vanilla, cream? Or was it more like some sort of faint butterscotch? Something he had never tasted before, but it was delicious.

Coherent thoughts were beginning to leave his mind and he turned his attention to the thoughts scattering through hers. He had been right; listening to her mind whilst kissing her was the most erotic experience of his life. It was like a kaleidoscope of lust, fear, trembling, need, but also a strange sense that he was finally doing something right. Something that needed to be done. He couldn't distinguish if it was his thought or hers.

"There wasn't one day in those fucking six years that I didn't think of you," he whispered huskily against her mouth, "I used to dream of you..." He pulled the leggings down one of her hips, his fingers hooking into the lace that wrapped around her.

He felt like he would die if he wasn't inside her soon. Now.

It snapped her back to reality. She pushed him off again. "No, I'm not doing this."

He panted against her throat, his eyes closed, feeling like he had lost something. Finally he was able to speak.

"Then answer my question, Bella. Why haven't we seen each other for six fucking years?"

"You know why. New Years Eve." He pulled back from her minutely, frowning at her.

"What do you mean?" He ran his hand through his hair, and her fingers tingled at the knowledge of what it felt like to do just that.

"You know exactly what I mean. After that New Year's Eve, you didn't try to contact me. Nothing. It was five months before I even got a text message from you, and you were drunk. My feelings were really hurt, Edward, and you owed me an apology. You were having sex with my best friend, on the bed that I'm going to have to sleep in tonight. I finally felt like I might have meant something to you that night, as I climbed the stairs to that fucking room. And I didn't. I was going to give you my virginity that night, you asshole."

Her voice broke, and she closed her eyes from his stare. He opened his mouth to speak but she pressed her hand on his swollen lips. She raised her eyebrows, and continued, feeling both humiliated but also finding it cathartic, getting this all out between them.

"So, I was left looking like a complete fool as usual, and I went to college, and you just dropped off the face of the Earth, calling me from wherever you were on the globe on those rare occasions when you deigned to think of me, and you were usually drunk and horny, attempting phone sex like I was slightly better than nothing."

He was getting irritated. "I just said, I thought of you every single day. No matter where I was. You were with me."

She shook her head. "But I didn't know that, did I? You made no effort. You cut yourself off from all of us. You didn't even go to Emmett and Rose's wedding for Christ's sake." Tears pricked her eyes and she blinked them away furiously.

"I wasn't even in the United States, as I recall."

Edward began rubbing his eyes to hide his face from hers. The conversation had veered into uncomfortable territory, and he was still drunk from the taste of her. He couldn't think properly. He leaned against her, wishing he could fix this, make her smile. The gulf was too wide.

"You could have made it back if you'd wanted to. You have always been exactly where you wanted to be. Why didn't you?" Bella sat rigid as his hot, open mouth settled on a pulse point where her neck met her shoulder.

Finally, he spoke, his voice deceptively light.

"Weddings, I fucking hate them. I do, you do, let's do photos, eat dinner, say a speech, eat a cake, dance to shithouse music. I catch the garter, you catch the bouquet, go home. What's the big deal? I saw the fairly poor quality photos, and I might say, sent them a fuckload of cash as a present."

He pulled back, kissed her lightly on the mouth.

"You are unbelievable." Bella shook her head. "You are the most selfish person I have ever met."

"You got that right," drawled Emmett, stepping in from the hallway.

Bella sincerely hoped he had not been there long.

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**A/N: Edward was actually using his laptop to read your review. Reviews make Edward kneel in front of your armchair.  
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	7. Chapter 6: The Sharpest

**A/N: ****I do not own Twilight, or any of its characters, it all belongs to Stephenie Meyer! **

**My beautiful beta bookbag and I continue to operate in the realm of no wrong; a safe place free of**** judgement**** where I can metaphorically lie on a chaise like Dame Barbara Cartland, screeching at her about Curseward's hair, with my mouth crammed with truffles. She somehow creates a Twilighted thread, pimps me tirelessly, wanders the lemon grove with me as we check when they will be ripe, betas a chapter to make it just delicious, consoles me patiently over my inability to get INTO said Twilighted thread (login fail) whilst still effortlessly looking like a lovely Girl Friday in a pencil skirt and impeccable lipstick.  
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"**Love sees sharply, hatred sees even more sharp, but jealousy sees the sharpest for it is love and hate at the same time" ****_-Arab Proverb_**

**Chapter Six: The Sharpest**

Bella shoved Edward away from her, knocking him back onto his ass, refusing to acknowledge Emmett's arched eyebrows and jumped up, tripping over Edward in her haste to get away from him. The old nickname spilled from her lips before she knew what she was saying.

"Emmy!!"

She launched herself at him, and Emmett's laughter in her ear almost deafened her as he swung her up off the ground, her feet dangling near his knees.

"Belly!!"

They snickered at their idiotic nicknames and he shook her around for a bit, like a dog gently mauling a rabbit. A heavily pregnant Rose stood behind Emmett in the doorway, her lovely face all pink and creased. She had obviously been asleep in the car. She dropped an enormous yellow handbag on the floor with a thud and a faint breaking sound.

Edward, sprawled on the floor, scowled at the easy display of affection. He didn't like how Bella squeezed her eyes shut, put her cheek on Emmett's shoulder. She looked like she loved him. It was certainly different from the reception _he_ had gotten earlier in the field.

"Give her back," he said in a clipped, cross voice, his suddenly itchy fingertips scratching the Persian rug that had grown warm before the fire. He sounded exactly like he was ten years old again, skulking underneath Emmett's tree house, demanding they unfurl the rope ladder, formulating increasingly elaborate threats as Bella and Emmett lay side by side with silent tears of laughter running down their cheeks.

Emmett shook his head at Edward, swung Bella back and forth, grinning.

Edward looked away, exasperated.

Bella stared down from Emmett's shoulder in astonishment. "Oh, my God! Rose, you're huge!" She blurted. "I mean, glowing." Rose looked like she had a beach ball under her clothes.

"I'll take that as a compliment. I think." Rose said, rolling her eyes and holding out her arms to her.

Emmett set Bella down and the two women pressed kisses on each other's cheeks; Rose chilled, Bella burning.

"You said you'd call me when you arrived safely," Rose chided, pulling Bella's top back onto her shoulder, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ears. She examined Bella's flushed face, her feverishly bright eyes.

"I'm sorry, I forgot." Bella leaned into Rose, inhaling Chanel.

They wrapped their arms around each other and watched the brothers.

Edward still lay sprawled on the rug, and backlit by the fire, his expression was unreadable. His hair was a mess of twisted peaks, and Bella was reminded of horns.

Emmett crossed to Edward and held his hand out, pulling him to his feet. He gave Edward a hard hug, but instantly recoiled.

"Ugh, dude, you have a boner. Did we just interrupt something?"

The silence was piercing. Sexual tension layered heavy over everything.

Bella stared fixedly at the painting over the fireplace to distract herself from the excruciating embarrassment. She strictly forbade her eyes to stray to any part of Edward, though they kept starting to drift down of their own accord. The painting, titled The Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog, depicted a black clad man's rear profile, standing on rocks over roiling mist. His face wasn't visible, but depending on Bella's mood, he appeared to be conquering, desolate, wrathful, resigned, heartsick. Esme always told a story at dinner parties that when Bella was little, she thought it was a painting of Edward.

Rose and Emmett exchanged glances at the incriminating silence.

Finally, Edward responded. "What can I say? Pregnant chicks do it for me. Come here, gorgeous." He raised his eyebrows lasciviously, not in the least embarrassed.

Rose pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, muffling her sweet, squeaky giggle. "I'm not going anywhere near you in those pj pants. That's obscene. Were you dry humping Bella again?"

Edward was endlessly amused by Rose. "Always. I never stop if I can help it." He caught Bella's eye, held it, his smile fading.

"Well, anyway, it's nice to see you again, even if we could all wish for better circumstances. Although, if you hang around, you might get to see your new niece or nephew pretty soon. " Rose folded her hands on her huge bump, smiling to herself. The firelight gilded her butter blonde hair, her slightly fuller cheeks making her look somehow younger. She stood placidly, yawning, holding out her limbs obediently as Emmett and Bella peeled various coats and scarves and vests from her body. She rested her hand on Emmett's back as he pulled off her sheepskin boots and watched wordlessly as he set them on the hearth.

"You need to go to bed, honey," Emmett said, tracing under her eyes with his fingers. He lowered his face, and Rose kissed him on the tip of his nose.

"Come and tuck me in Bella," Rose said, leading her from the room. "Leave the boys to talk." Bella trailed behind her, carrying her heavy handbag for her, beyond grateful to be saved.

As they disappeared down the hallway, Emmett and Edward could clearly hear Rose stage-whispering, "Did we just hear you say he called wanting phone sex?"

*o*o*o*o*o*o

"What's up, brother?" Emmett rubbed his hands by the fire, shrugging off his enormous lumberjack coat. "Other than the obvious, I mean."

Edward laughed and wandered over to the side cabinet and grabbed a crystal decanter, pouring two enormous glasses of scotch. He loved the cliché of it.

"Same old, same old." Edward settled in the armchair, Emmett took the sofa. He was so big, he made the sofa look like an armchair. His slightly craggy, weathered face was softened by the fire. He looked like a farmer, a prize fighter, a wood chopping contestant, a prison guard. In reality, he was a counselor; mainly for teenagers. Parents found that their teenage boys respected this enormous, grizzled man enough to at least not walk out of the room.

He was the Rock of Gibraltar in a roiling sea of human emotion; had always been this way, even since he was a boy. Constancy and patience was woven into his fabric, and he sat unmoving, taking in the room. The floor to ceiling bookcases required a ladder for the top shelves. The smell of the leather book bindings and furniture polish made everything seem old fashioned and timeless. The painting over the fire glowed pink and grey, the only softening touch to what was a masculine, dark room.

Edward swirled his liquor, clearly channeling his inner Bond villain.

"How's ma?" Emmett took a tiny sip from his glass, held it on his tongue before swallowing it, trying not to cough at the trickle of fire it traced down to his stomach. He breathed out unsteadily through his nose. He didn't actually want the scotch- he needed coffee, and badly, but didn't want to make a big deal out of it. Edward would lampoon him. There wasn't even a houseplant to tip it into.

Edward poured half his scotch down his throat. Emmett was both alarmed and unwillingly a bit impressed. The guy looked like he used the stuff instead of mouthwash. He filed it away, deciding to monitor Edward's alcohol consumption. Adding alcohol would be like touching a lit match to that dynamite temper.

"She was happy to see Bella. She was a bit more chatty. But still… not long now." Edward stared into the remaining amber liquid, wearing his customary frown.

Emmett felt nothing but the suffocating squeeze that filled his lungs and throat whenever he thought of his mother. He tried to wash away the feeling away with another few drops of scotch.

"So. Bella. Would you care to tell me what was going on in here?" Emmett got to the point.

Edwards frown turned into a scowl. His eyes flashed in warning.

"None of your fucking business."

"Damn straight it's my business. That girl is like my kid sister. If you hurt her again, I'll crush you." Emmett's tone was teasing, but it had a note of steel.

"Well, thankfully for me, she isn't our kid sister. Otherwise, I'd be a pervert. Christ, she's looking hot. And I don't know why you think I'd hurt her. I've only ever done what was best for her." Edward paused. "What do you mean by _again_, anyway?"

Emmett shook his head. "She was crushed after that stunt you pulled with Alice Brandon that New Years Eve. You had to know she had a crush on you."

"Oh, fuck me. Today is just about how much of a shit I am." Edward hooked one leg over the edge of the armchair, and tugged on his hair, his temper sparking, his defenses causing him to visibly prickle. His teeth were scraping at his lip, his fingernails scratching the old green upholstery. His foot began tapping in the air. "Just drop it."

Emmett was fascinated by his brother. He had never met anyone like him. Through his work, he met hundreds of people a year and was attuned to the shifts in a person's body language. He could tell if they were lying, defensive, angry, unbalanced. For someone so secretive and controlling, Edward seemed unaware that he gave himself away so often, Emmett mused. Watching Edward get angry was like watching a snake getting angry. He seemed to vibrate from it, like he would strike at any moment.

Emmett decided to provoke him, to try to get him to talk. It sometimes worked. Edward never wanted to talk about anything below the surface.

"No, I'm not going to drop it. You're bad for her, Edward, so back the fuck off her. You're just using her, like always." Emmett watched, gauging whether his words had hit their mark.

Edward narrowed his eyes, his whole body going still. He said nothing.

Emmett tried again. "You can't be trying to get in her pants, not now. It's too late."

Edward relaxed, quirked an eyebrow and drank his remaining scotch in a gulp. "It's never too late. I could kick your ass for showing up when you did. I was just getting somewhere." He stretched nonchalantly.

"She's engaged, you know, right?" Pay dirt, Emmett thought, as Edward's temper finally flashed in his eyes. They darkened to a murderous bottle green. This was one angry snake.

Edward's hand tightened on the crystal tumbler, his fingers white. In that instant, he looked like he was going to throw it against the wall behind Emmett, who inwardly braced. Instead, he very deliberately placed it on a side table, and leant forward to retrieve the diamond ring and the snapped chain which lay forgotten on the rug. He held it aloft with two fingers.

"This thing makes me sick." He studied it with a kind of distasteful fascination.

"Why is it on the floor?" Emmett watched Edward's mouth quirk with a ghost of a smile.

"Because I threw it there."

"Edward, you are a frigging caveman. You _know_ that's insane. Normal people don't do things like that."

Edward laughed. "I would never claim to be normal." He swung the ring back and forth on the chain, like a pendulum.

Emmett persisted, undaunted by Edward's flippancy.

"Ripping a ring off her hand doesn't change anything. She's taken now. Let her be. Michael's pretty nice. A bit stuffy, but overall a nice guy. We even stayed at their apartment for a few nights when we were in Portland last year."

The tendons stood out on Edward's forearms. "I don't want to know. I don't care if he's a frigging saint. If I meet him, I'll probably kill him."

"You had your chance back in the day, Edward, and you missed it. Now you have to give it up."

Edward slyly slid a hot pink cell phone out of his pocket, flipped it open. Emmett stared at it for half a minute, the object so incongruous in Edward's hand, before it clicked.

"You stole Bella's cell phone?"

"Borrowed it. You're making me think…..Maybe I ought to check out the competition."

"That's an invasion of privacy. Give it here." Emmett held out his hand. Edward shook his head, smirking, and began looking through Bella's messages. He started with the inbox. After thirty seconds, he looked up at Emmett.

"This is the most boring bunch of texts I've ever read. 'Bella- not home for dinner'. 'Bella- please buy rice flour'. What the fuck is rice flour? What does one do with rice flour? This guy is so fucking BORING. Wait- listen to this one. 'You look nice today".

Edward chortled, immensely cheered up. "Apparently the competition isn't so strong."

Emmett shook his head, ruefully amused, using every ounce of control not to let his mouth smile. Edward had that effect on everybody. You found yourself trying not to laugh at his sheer, unapologetic awfulness.

"Maybe she wants some stability, Edward, have you thought of that?"

Edward was too busy reading to listen to Emmett properly. He went to the sent items. This was more like it. Bella's texts were wordy, thought out, as if she wanted to get her money's worth. She used literally every character she could when composing messages.

"She's texting everyone but me, it seems," he noted coldly. "She texts Rose about ten times a day, even you get some. That's just fucking lovely."

He read each one, absorbing her words, greedy for any snippets of her life he could find. The work related ones were dull. Her job seemed super shitty. She had sent one to someone called Angela last night which said, 'Thanks for all your support over the last few weeks. I've made a lot of progress. I'm feeling like I can face him again.' What the fuck did that mean? He went to her contacts list, scrolled, comparing names against his mental inventory. Who were all these people? Why did she have so many men in her phone? He opened his own contact details. She had his correct cell number. All it said was Edward, and the number. It seemed so impersonal.

He looked at Emmett, thrown for a moment, and then recalled his earlier question and said tartly, "She doesn't want stability. At this point, I think she belongs in a coma wing."

"It doesn't matter what you think, anyway. She's chosen him. Why do you care, anyway? I've never understood what's between you and Bella." There was silence.

"She's mine." Edward's tone was final, factual. His fist tightened on the diamond ring.

"You can hear her thoughts, though, right?" Emmett said this casually, but the shock of the statement reverberated in the room. Emmett had finally broached the untouchable topic. Edward stared at him in horror, his mouth slightly open.

"Edward, how could I not have known this? Did you think I wouldn't notice the one sided conversations you guys would have as six year olds? The way we played Go Fish, and completely annihilated her every time? Or what about how you found her hidden Easter egg stash after putting your finger on her forehead?" Emmett smiled sadly, looking into the fire.

"Poor kid never stood a chance with you. She was like your imaginary friend, but she actually existed. The only thing I want to know, is like, how do you do it? Can you hear me? I've never been sure." He looked at Edward directly. "What am I thinking?"

"Emmett, you ass." Edward smiled lightly, stubbornly giving away nothing. Power was power, whether it was real or imagined.

Emmett gritted his teeth, though he wasn't surprised. Nothing with Edward came easy.

Emmett was fascinated by the concept of telepathy; pored over any journals or new studies on the subject. On paper, he would have dismissed Edward as a particularly skilled manipulator of visual cues. He would never have believed it, or would have just written it off as his childish imagination, had he not witnessed it first hand so many times. He remembered once seeing Edward and Bella through the window when they were teenagers. He had been in the kitchen, pouring himself some water, when he saw them.

They were outside in the small vegetable garden outside the kitchen. Bella stood amongst the cabbages, Edward opposite her with his back to Emmett. "Give it to me," Edward had said, holding out his palm as if requesting payment. Although clearly under duress, Bella put her hand into his. Her face scrunched in concentration, her face tilted, her body twisting away. "No, give it to me," Edward had hissed, carelessly crushing the row of lettuces behind him. He growled, frustrated. "His name, Bella." Bella glared at him, and her face had smoothed, her shoulders straightening in a small sign of defiance. They had stood there in silence for several moments. Until Edward's temper had fractured.

Edward picked up his scotch glass, tipped it against his lips before realizing belatedly it was empty, and licked at the remaining drops. "You're going to be all pissy, but I've convinced Bella to pretend to be falling in love with me. You know, to make ma happy."

Emmett steepled his huge hands, and instead of being outraged as Edward had expected, he appeared thoughtful. Emmett had heard too much over the years. He was unshockable.

"Well, I know she's always hoped you two would end up together."

Edward sat forward in his seat, relieved that he didn't have to sell the idea to his brother. "Exactly, that's what I told Bella. She just has to pretend to be falling in love with me, and we can send Ma off with the last puzzle piece in place. Nice and simple."

Emmett cast his eyes to the ceiling and shook his head.

"Look. I can't stop you, and I won't say anything. But I think this is a really bad idea. Nothing about you is simple. You and Bella have a lot of bad history." He held up his hand as Edward opened his mouth to argue.

"Edward, you once actually half-carried her out of Tyler's house party because you thought she was talking to a guy. Which she was, except that it was me, but you were too drunk to realize. She has every right to believe that you're a sociopath."

Edward's glare was vicious. He hated being reminded about incidents like that. They made him feel ridiculous. "I couldn't help myself. I was drunk. I was only joking, anyhow," he spat, his hand traveling to his hair.

"Like hell you were. You created such a scene out on the front lawn, ranting and raving while she cried, telling her that she was yours, and you punched me in the gut when I went out to stop you. People talked about it at school for weeks. She felt like a laughing stock. Everyone thought she was caught in some sort of semi-incestuous love triangle, and as always, you skated out of it scot-free."

The diamond engagement ring dangled from Edward's fingers, and his eyes reflected the glinting sparks. He suddenly seemed to be not listening to Emmett at all; like he had changed frequencies. He rarely listened to anything he didn't like.

"I wonder if it's too late for me to ring Michael. I wonder if nice tidy lawyer-types are asleep by now." He flipped open the phone, and Emmett got to his feet, putting the almost untouched scotch next to Edward's empty glass.

"Do not fucking think about doing that." He held out his hand. "Give it to me."

"I was only joking," Edward protested, holding the cell close to his chest. "I'm going to go and give these back to Bella now. And I'll apologize, and buy her a new chain."

Emmett stared at him for a long moment, could not detect any traces of insincerity in Edward's face. "Alright. I'll see you in the morning." He ambled down the hallway, his movements heavy, the floorboards emitting squeaks of protest.

Edward stared into the fire and drank every last drop of Emmett's scotch. He put Bella's ring in his mouth, sucked it, tasting the salt and the bitter gold, rolled the sharp diamond against his tongue.

The clock ticked onwards, making him antsy. He could not bear the sound of a ticking clock. It sounded like wasted time. He toyed with the phone. He tilted it this way and that, as if it were a magic eight ball; as if the screen would reveal The Signs Point to Yes. The familiar tuggings of conscience and mischief teased at him.

He selected a number. And hit Call.

*o*o*o*o*o*o

Bella laughed as she and Rose trudged up the stairs to the second floor, to Emmett's old bedroom. "Yes, he calls maybe twice a year, drunk and lonely from a hotel room in some random country. It's terribly seedy." Her voice was deceptively light.

Rose puffed and they paused on the first landing. "What sort of things does he say?" she asked, fascinated.

"The most annoying thing is that he calls at night, but it's only night time where he is. Time zones just don't compute with him. Sometimes I'll be getting a call at ten am on a Sunday, or like three thirty in the afternoon on a Monday and I'm at work. It's really irritating."

They continued up the stairs.

"Quit stalling, Swan, spit it out. What sort of things does he say?" Bella shushed her and opened Rose's handbag, marveled at the array of items in there. A measuring tape. A bra. A cookie cutter. A ball of wool.

They reached the second floor, went into Emmett's old bedroom- the blue room. They went in. It was lovely and warm, and Carlisle had built a low fire in the little fireplace. The room smelt of pine, like Christmas. Rose went to it, held her hands against the flickering warmth.

"He says thing like…" Rose prompted. Bella said nothing.

"Come on, I'm your best friend! I need to know these things. How else can I help you?"

Bella sank down to kneel in front of the fire and looked up at Rose, her face pensive. Rose could see right through her. She felt a burst of irritation that everybody could read her and get things out of her.

"Well, the last time he called, it was a couple of months ago- November, I think. He was calling from New Zealand. He was shooting the glaciers."

"I thought he only did war photos, these days," Rose commented, straightening the dusty knick knacks on the mantle.

"He sort of fills in the gaps in between shooting war zones, I think, especially if it's a country he wants to go to." Bella's voice was soaked in envy. Edward had the most incredible lifestyle of anyone she had ever met. Looking at his passport was like reading an Atlas. According to Esme, he actually had to get a second passport last year; he had filled up the pages of the first one.

"He was telling me about how cold it was, and how he and the journalist he was traveling with went and saw the hot springs and got drunk in Rotorua, and the air smelt like rotten eggs from the sulfur. What a turn on. Anyway. He started saying how much he missed me, in that particular voice he uses."

Rose interrupted. "What voice?"

"He sort of makes it all…. Smooth… yet somehow rough, and low. Does that make sense? And by this point I know where he's headed."

Rose headed to the bed, lay down heavily on her back. "Then what does he say?"

"He starts telling me that he misses me. That he's traveled the world, and he's never seen anyone remotely as beautiful as me."

Bella picked at the fringe of the faded Persian rug on the floor, tracing the lines of ice blue, navy, dove grey "Which is complete crap. He dates models, for God's sake."

Bella looked at her nails, short and unpainted. Imagining him with other women was a familiar ache, but somehow always throbbed dull and strong. He was so gorgeous, he could always take his pick of women. When he set his mind to winning someone, they never resisted him long. Sooner or later, one of them would capture him for good. She was resigned to the thought. She had been bracing herself for years, certain that Esme or Carlisle would casually mention Edward moving in with someone, or worse, proposing. He couldn't live like Peter Pan forever.

"You're more beautiful than any of those soulless mannequins," Rose protested through a yawn, "Though he certainly seems to deliberately choose the women with the blackest souls he can find. They're beautiful, but they're just rotten." She shuddered. "That one Emmett and I met a few years ago…ugh, Tanya, I think. I looked into her eyes, and all I saw was pure, unadulterated evil."

Bella laughed at Rose's tendency to exaggerate.

"Well, thank you for thinking I'm beautiful."

"Christ, this is like pulling teeth! What does he say next?" Rose was tired and her tone was slightly sharp.

"He tells me that he wishes I was there, that he is all alone, and if I were there he'd be touching me."

Rose propped herself up awkwardly on her elbows. "Oh, this is getting good. Then what does he say?"

Bella's cheeks were burning. She finished in a rush.

"He says things about what he'd like to do. That he'd make me remember that I was his. That once he got his hands on me again, I would give in. You know, the usual."

Rose lay back down flat, giving up on getting any juicier details. "Hot. And creepy. But still hot. Is that wrong, to think my brother-in-law is creepy hot?"

There was a long silence. Bella used a poker to prod the fire, seeing that Carslisle had added pine cones to make that beautiful scent. He was the most considerate man.

"Have you ever thought that maybe Edward only calls you when he's drunk because it's the only time he has the confidence?"

Bella half turned, but could only see Rose's feet.

"When has Edward ever needed confidence? He used to shower with the bathroom door open back in the day."

Rose sighed deeply. She raised her hands above her face, twisted her engagement ring back into place, felt the baby stretch in contentment.

"Sometimes it's hard for men to say what they feel. Especially complicated men like Edward."

"Edward feels nothing." Bella's voice was flat, final.

Rose laughed softly. "Edward's feelings are stronger than anybody's."

"Oh, Rose, that's not what I meant. It came out wrong. Of course he has _feelings_. Edward's feelings have dominated my life. I mean, he doesn't have feelings for me."

"His feelings for you are the strongest."

"His feelings for me are the… sharpest, maybe, but they're not romantic feelings. He doesn't understand his feelings for me, probably never will, so there's no point in me trying to analyse him. I'd drive myself insane."

"Do you think he's wanking when he's talking to you?" Rose snickered evilly.

"I assume he is. He gets a bit breathless towards the end."

Rose gusted a deep sigh. "Towards the end? So, once he's panting down the phone, what do you do? Hang up on him? Blow a gym-teacher's whistle to deafen him?"

Bella was silent.

"Do you…. Talk back to him?"

Bella bit the inside of her cheek.

Rose gaped at the ceiling, trying to reconcile the image. Bella, who made jars of cranberry sauce for Christmastime and had a dollhouse? That same Bella, talking dirty to Edward? Made sense, Rose thought. Michael was a stuffed shirt, and it was always the quiet girls who were a little freaky. She was so tired, the conversation was starting to feel like a hallucination.

"I don't say anything." Bella interrupted Rose's turgid train of thought. She looked at Rose with a small glint in her eye.

"What, you just listen?"

"I just…. Don't hang up." She finally clarified.

"Well, well." Rose dragged herself around with her legs, climbed awkwardly under the blankets fully clothed. "This is very interesting."

Bella watched her crash headlong into sleep.

*o*o*o*o*o*o

Bella returned to the white room to find her ring and her cell lying square in the middle of her pillow. Emmett. What a relief to have him here. Thank God Edward hadn't gotten his hands on these. She could see that he was still awake; the light cast an oozing gold glow underneath the door and she could hear Led Zeppelin's Black Dog playing faintly.

She checked the bathroom door was locked twice before she stripped off and stood under the boiling spray. Right in the exact spot that Edward would also stand naked every morning. She shivered despite the heat of the water, her mind drifting back to everything she had omitted to tell Rose. She felt guilty for holding back, but there was no way she could have said some of those words aloud or even hoped to have accurately captured his words.

*o*o*o*o*o*o

"Bella," he had purred, the sound of a creaking mattress faintly audible. "Bella, gorgeous Bella, I'm lying here on this bed and I'm thinking about your hair. If you were here with me now, I'd wind your hair around my wrists and I'd kiss you. I'd suck on your tongue, just a little bit, I know how much you like that. And you like when I bite you too, don't you? When I bite you, your thoughts go all fuzzy."

He laughed huskily and Bella had looked around surreptitiously to see if anyone was watching her. She had snuck out of the incredibly boring court case she was covering, hoping fervently that a bombshell wasn't dropped in her absence. She had walked to the end of the hallway, sat on the low windowsill.

It was indeed three thirty on a Monday afternoon. Edward was clearly drunk, and announced that he was in New Zealand. Bella, trapped inside the airless corridor like a bug in a jar, was speechless with jealousy.

He had made with the pleasantries for a good couple of minutes before he flicked the switch and went into long-distance seduction mode.

"What are you wearing?" He had slurred softly, unaware or uncaring of how clichéd he sounded. "Work clothes," she said flatly.

"I can work with that," he muttered, undeterred by her tone. "A skirt and white shirt, and your glasses too, I bet." Bella looked down at herself. He was right.

"Well, how I'd see it happening, I'd roll you onto your back, and I'd bite every single one of your shirt buttons off, starting at the bottom. Real slow. I'd chew on them and spit them out." Bella's eyebrows shot up and she shrank back further into the windowsill as a grey clutch of lawyers walked past, conferring loudly amongst themselves.

"We'd leave your geek glasses on for a bit longer. Are they still the black rimmed nerd ones? They get me so hot, you have no fucking idea. So, are you still with me here?" His breathing hitched, and Bella's clitoris fluttered to life in response. The hallway emptied again, and she was alone momentarily, her heart pounding in her throat.

"Yes, I'm still here," she managed to say crisply, attempting to sound businesslike to anyone overhearing her. Inwardly, she screaming at herself to hang up, yet somehow could not. He had the most vivid imagination; perhaps it was the curiosity of what he would say next that kept her just not quite able to disconnect. She fiddled with one of the buttons on her shirt in fascination- he would _bite_ them off?- and swung her hair around to shield her blazing cheeks from any passers by.

"Yes, that's what you'd say if you were here, and in that prissy voice too. So, to recap, I've fucking ruined your shirt, and I'd pull it up and wrap it around your wrists over your head. Then I'd slide down your skirt zipper so, so slow you'd be begging me to hurry." Here, Edward's voice grew rough, before he swallowed, and then said, "Then I'd peel it off you."

Bella twisted on the windowsill. It was just wrong to be this turned on in public, at work. She began walking down the hall, towards the fire escape.

"Are you walking?" Edward asked, his breathing steadily increasing in her ear. "I can hear your heels."

Bella said nothing, pushed the heavy fire escape door, stepped into the half darkness, leaned against it. Her skin was sensitized, she could feel the cold of the door against her burning skin through her thin cotton shirt, her nipples hardening.

"Hmmm, now, let me see," Edward continued. "You'd be in just…. A bra, and panties, and thigh highs." He didn't speak for several moments, and Bella closed her eyes, biting her lip, sensing her own wetness increasing. Just the sound of his breath was hopelessly erotic. She abstractly realized it was a very good International connection. It was crystal clear. She could almost feel his hot breath in her ear.

"So, those stockings have to go. I'm probably going to just tear them slowly to shreds, and lick your skin through each hole. I'll have to bite just one little hole at first, but then they'd rip just so easy." His voice was dark, strained.

"You won't be able to stop yourself thinking of what you wish I'd do. I'll hear it, and I'll do it. And I'll do the things you're half praying I won't. And you'll be mine, completely mine. As soon as my hands are on you, you will always be…." His voice trailed off. His breath was rough now, and fast. "You can't do anything about it, either, because your hands are all tangled up."

Bella opened her eyes and said, before she could stop herself, "But what if it's not me being restrained? Maybe it would be you on your back." She was irritated by his view of her as always his victim, his property.

Edward's breath burned through the phone, almost hurting her ear. He groaned, long and deep. It was like an animal's growl. The sound was pure sex, utterly male, completely Edward. Bella wrapped her arm around her stomach, trying to ignore the answering pulse in her neck, breasts, between her thighs. She held herself still as his panting gradually slowed.

"Yep, that did it," he started laughing lazily. "You dirty girl. I fucking love it. Do you want me to keep talking for you?"

Bella let the chill spread back over her, a protective layer, as the embarrassment and shame that she had been holding off suddenly sucked the breath from her lungs.

She had said, with as much dignity as she could, "Goodbye, Edward."

*o*o*o*o*o*o

Bella was suddenly doused in cold water as the hot water ran out in the Cullen's shower, recreating the feeling perfectly.

* * *

**A/N: So who did Edward call?**

**If you would like to see the painting that hangs over the fireplace, there's a link on my profile, and the Twilighted link too.**

**Reviews make Edward give you a phone call at 3:30 on a Monday afternoon. **


	8. Chapter 7: Eighty Years

**A/N: ****I do not own Twilight, or any of its characters, it all belongs to Stephenie Meyer!**

**I love everyone who is reading this, reviewing this, liking this, reccing this. **

**And bookbag as always. **

**You are all creepy hot. **

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Eighty Years  
**

The weather was trying to claw its way inside. It leaned against the glass and tested the window frame's structural integrity. The wind huffed through the minute gaps around the pane. It breathed fog around the foundations, and licked condensation along the edges of the glass. It picked at the slate roof tiles. Something about this place amplified everything. Frustrated, the sky heaved a net of raindrops over the house. Still, the house stood steadfast, as it had for countless years.

Bella watched the splatter of rain run down the window with dry, scratchy eyes. She sat in a chair at the foot of Esme and Carlisle's bed, bleached with exhaustion in the pearlescent light that flooded the room. She had dragged on the first thing she could find in her bag, and was disheveled, with lavender shadows under her eyes. She had been relieved to see Edward's door still closed as she trod silently down the hallway.

She had slept fitfully, dozing off and then jolting awake in a seemingly never ending loop. Her back had grown unaccustomed to the soft, swayed mattress, and she thought she could smell Edward on her pillow.

She had forgotten that he couldn't sleep without music. She had been used to it when she was a teenager, even found it strangely comforting.

Last night, it seemed to permeate her room, soak her blankets, lie on her skin like a film; it made the wall vibrate lightly when she rested her fingertips against it.

His room throbbed like a heartbeat, all night.

At about three thirty, she contemplated sending him a text, telling him to turn it off, but she didn't press send on the irate message she had composed. She didn't want to deal with him when she was so tired. No doubt knowing she was awake would have been enough to have him slinking into her room.

She locked her door at night, like Carlisle insisted when she was younger. But history had proven time and time again that a mere lock couldn't keep him out. Once, during a week-long argument where she had avoided him, he had unscrewed the door hinges.

Esme was sitting up in bed. Carlisle had arranged her pillows into a large stack and then gone on his morning drive to buy newspapers and pastries. Her bedside table was littered with the hallmarks of the ill; a water glass with a straw, tissues, brown medication bottles that made Bella look away.

The room was colour themed, like the rest. When Emmett was a baby, Esme had taken a short course on interior design to get herself out of the house. She didn't see the irony of taking up a hobby to get her out of the house which actually made her spend more time in it.

She had embraced the concept of colour psychology with an intensity unmatched by the other course participants. This was the green room; the wallpaper in palest eau de nil stripes. The curtains were dark ivy brocade, and the little cream French armchairs were upholstered in pale mint. She had wanted to bring the outside in, she had told Carlisle, motioning to the lush green fields and distant weeping willows out the window. "We'd better paint the room grey then," he had teased.

Esme lay, curled beneath her similarly leafy blankets, marveling at how her whole universe had shrunk to this room.

It seemed like an eternity ago that the world had been unwalled. Before she had started this slow fade, she had spent hours outside in the garden, strong enough to withstand the punishing Forks elements, coming in after dark with a back aching from digging and raking. She had pushed tiny seedlings into the black dirt, and watched them twist into life.

She liked to remember herself carrying heavy pitchers of lemonade onto the stone patio with a steady arm, calling the children down from their tree house as the dappled sunlight blinded her eyes.

She had saddled Mercury and Jupiter and cut pieces of apple with a pocketknife for Bella to feed them. She had stood beside a bonfire, the sky a purple-black dome studded with stars, leaning against Carlisle, feeling his lips in her hair. She remembered giving silent thanks to the forces had brought them together. Souls always found their way home.

They were memories of a different era, when her world was made of air and sky. Her body had tried to give her tiny clues, just over three years ago now. The cancer had taken residence in her body, and had taken a hold, faintly announcing itself with a slight ache in her abdomen and some weight loss. She had actually been pleased to lose a few pounds in the beginning, she recalled with a tiny smile.

Now, as pancreatic cancer claimed Esme slowly, she could do no more than curl here, and be tended by her family, and breathe.

It was not easy. The ache inside her body battled against every breath she drew, and it took every ounce of her concentration to not let it show. The medication left a bitter taste in her mouth, and barely seemed to smudge the edges of her pain.

Still, she was where she wanted to be, surrounded by those who connected her like threads to the Earth. Sometimes, she wondered if she would just float off if the room was empty, with no one to anchor her with their words, their presence. Her eyes lifted to the gunmetal square of sky framed by the window, which in turn framed Bella. The light was too bright, but she never wanted those curtains closed again.

She watched as Bella ate a piece of her toast, marveling at how easy it seemed to be. Esme had not eaten in months. The drip beside the bed infused her body with some mysterious substance, and she was glad. Eating anything was unfathomable now.

Bella was curled in her seat, completely unaware of herself as always. Esme lovingly memorized the curve of her cheek, her youth, her colours. Trying to imprint them on her soul somehow. To have something to take to Renee.

"Emmett and Rose will sleep late, I'd say," Bella commented, sipping her orange juice. "They got in pretty late last night."

Esme's hands played with the edge of the quilt. "Is Rose big as a house?"

Bella grinned, and held her hands out in front of her as far as they went. "Oh, at least this big."

Esme's eyes went dreamy as she gazed out the window behind Bella. "I love babies so much."

Bella's heart burned. Please hold on. Please hold on.

"And here's your most favourite baby," Edward announced, sailing into the room, dropping a kiss on Esme's forehead and taking a piece of toast from Bella's plate as he passed. He paused, and then awkwardly put it back.

"No, go on, I've had enough anyway," she told him tiredly.

He dragged a chair over to sit opposite her. He wrapped his legs around hers, his black socked feet pressing her ankles together. He leaned in, kissing her forehead. Soap, clean cloth and spearmint toothpaste swirled.

"Hello. You look gorgeous." He slowly kissed from her cheek to her temple. Very slowly. The hairs stood up on her arms, and she resisted the urge to twist away from his touch. This was all for Esme's benefit, she reminded him crossly.

"I know. How could I have left you alone all these years? So beautiful…" He muttered softly, taking her hands, turning them over, putting his thumbs in the centre of each palm.

His dark gold eyelashes were spiky, and as he raised his eyes to hers. The green caught her, held her. There were no words for those eyes. There was so much happening behind them. She wished she had eyes like that. Hers were just brown. Flat.

"Your eyes are deep." Edward said, conversationally.

Bella tried not to raise her eyebrows cynically as they stared at each other.

Her heart began to stumble and skip erratically as he ran his tongue over his lower lip. His beautiful mouth lifted in a lopsided smile, revealing one sharp white canine tooth.

She felt a thought trying to slip through her mental firewall. It was coming, like a sneeze, and she tried to pull her hands back. He pressed his thumbs more firmly into her palms, his eyes daring her to think it. She couldn't break the gaze.

There was no stopping it; she was hopelessly out of practice and could not divert the thought. The memory of leaning against the fire escape door, listening to him groan, flashed through her mind like a subliminal message. One frame. She watched as his pupils dilated, like a drop of black ink spreading.

"We should spend more time together. You know, to catch up. Talk about our favourite memories."

His eyebrow quivered almost imperceptibly, and she knew he was trying not to laugh at his own cleverness. He loved finding ways of turning things back onto her. He lifted his hand to her neck, cupped her jaw with one hand, his fingernails scratching lazy circles under her ear.

You're laying it on too thick, she thought. She'll know that something isn't right. You're not normally nice to me.

She cast a quick glance at Esme, who was watching them both with a captivated expression.

"That sounds…. Nice." Bella managed, trying not to sound doubtful.

"Did you sleep well?" He asked, and she nodded, making herself smile softly. The lie was like a blinking neon sign on her face, she was sure of it.

_Last night was the worst night's sleep I've had since I left this place, _she told him_. It was like sleeping inside fucking Moby Dick's stomach, listening to its heart beating all night. Turn your music down, for God's sake. I am going to break your Zeppelin record over my knee. _

Edward laughed and choked on his enormous mouthful of toast, and turned to Esme, coughing.

"Isn't Bella looking just so beautiful these days, ma?" he wheezed valiantly through the crumbs that circulated in his lungs, managing a dazzling smile.

Esme smiled back, seemingly unperturbed by their strange, stilted conversation.

"She is the most beautiful girl on Earth. But you already know that."

This charade was excruciating, and Bella squirmed.

"Well, thank you both. But how are you this morning, Edward?"

_I know how you are this morning. You slept like a baby. Look at you. _

"Fine, fine," he said, and let her go. He hastily shoved the rest of her toast in his mouth and went to look out the window. He wrenched open the window and leaned out, leaving only his rather lovely backside in view. He hung out so far, and he stood on one foot. He looked like he would topple out any second. The wind gleefully flooded in.

"Edward, it's freezing. Esme will get cold." Bella's voice was sharp as she watched his foot sliding on the carpet.

"It's alright," Esme murmured. She couldn't help but indulge Edward. "Having some fresh air is what I need. What are you looking for, darling?"

He hauled himself back inside and slammed the window shut again.

"I was checking whether it's going to clear up. I don't want my camera to get too wet. I want to go up to Rialto Beach, at La Push, to take some shots."

"What's up there?" Bella asked, her interest piqued.

"Tide's out. I want to go and climb on the rocks. There are some interesting formations up there."

Esme sighed. "I wish you'd do nature photography all the time. I hate the thought of you in the middle of a war. Why do you want to look at all the terrible things humans do to each other?"

Edward narrowed his eyes and looked at the floor. He said nothing, torn between arguing and upsetting Esme. He scraped his thumbnail against the end of his studded belt that hung long and loose. He was glad she didn't have a full grasp of what this type of work entailed. The contents of his laptop would horrify her.

"Edward's work is really important," Bella said in his defense. He looked up in surprise.

"The world needs to see war, as awful as it is." She stared up at the ceiling, its beautiful pressed ceiling and elegant, simple chandelier, trying to find the words.

"It means that the people who are in these awful situations have their stories told." She tucked her feet up on the chair and rested her head on her knees, closing her eyes.

"It humanizes what's happening to them."

Edward opened his mouth to say something, but Esme interrupted him.

"I'm sorry, darling. I know your job is important. I just hate to think of you in danger."

"Who's in danger?" said Emmett, entering the room carrying a tray laden with mugs and a glass coffee plunger.

"Edward is. When he's overseas, taking the war photos."

Emmett set the tray down, and kissed his mother on the cheek, snorting softly with laughter.

"Edward's in danger, alright. He's in danger right here in this house. Hello, ma."

He slanted a look at Bella, who wrinkled her nose at him.

"What, in danger from this little creature?" Edward returned, as he crossed the room and put his hands under Bella's hair, massaging her neck, his expert fingers plucking at each aching tendon before massaging in circles. Oh, Christ, he had strong hands, Bella thought hazily as his thumbs somehow found each frozen muscle, pressed it, unlocked her piece by piece.

Rose came in, proudly showcasing her belly in a tight black top. "Rose!" Esme crooned, her whole heart in her voice. More threads to hold her.

*o*o*o*o*o*o

Carlisle returned soon after, and they all sat around, drinking coffee and reading newspapers. Instinctively, they all attempted to act as normally as possible.

Esme reveled in the activity in the room, and her eyes glowed as she watched them all argue and tease each other. Rose sat on the bed next to her so she feel the baby moving. "Like a fluttering bird," said Esme.

"It's a damn big bird in there then," Rose said, "And it's making a nest out of my ribs."

Carlisle sat in his armchair, silent yet somehow always a part of everything. Esme loved watching him reading his newspaper. His threads ran in her veins. Emmett pulled Edward's vacated chair around next to Bella and flopped down into it, his feet on the edge of the bed.

Esme watched Edward, hating how he stood outside of the circle that had formed around her bed. He leaned against the window again, picking at a stud on his belt, his gaze flicking to Bella every few seconds. Esme doubted he was aware that his eyes returned to her so often. Her pull was as natural to him as blinking. He always wore black, Esme thought with faint irritation. What she wouldn't give to see him in some colour. He leaned against the window, and Esme hated the isolation she sensed as she studied him. She thought to ask him to sit closer, when he suddenly spoke.

"Bella, would you like to come to Rialto Beach with me today? We could grab some lunch, too."

All eyes turned to Bella.

"Like, a lunch date." He clarified.

Esme looked at her expectantly, not even trying to look disinterested. Bella felt like they were performing a play on stage. Any minute now, Esme would pick up opera glasses in the hope of getting a better view.

Emmett looked like he wanted to shake his head. Rose was gleeful; she loved playing. Carlisle's mouth was pursed and suspicious.

Bella twisted in her seat, attempting to make her smile look natural, slightly flirtatious. It wasn't hard to sound the part, given the material she was working with. His dark blue jeans were low slung and gravity was doing battle with the belt anchoring them on his hips.

His black t shirt melted all over his mouthwatering torso, and as her eyes drifted down, he lifted the edge of the shirt and began rubbing his stomach lazily. Glimpses of flat stomach adorned with a trail of softly curling dark gold hair, being rhythmically revealed and concealed by the fabric and his wrist, were making her brain blurry.

Bella realized she had not answered. Five minutes may have gone past for all she knew. She was very obviously ogling him, with all his family as a rapt audience.

She cleared her throat several times, but her voice was still embarrassingly husky. The shame, the shame, she told herself in despair.

"That would be really nice, Edward. I'd love that." She prayed she had appeared to be deep in thought- sensible thoughts, not thoughts that involved his muscled bits.

"I'll take you to wherever you want to go." Edward returned to stand behind Bella, sweeping her hair over one shoulder and dropping a courtly kiss on her cheek.

"Oh, Edward, you're such a gentleman." Esme all but glowed. "Such a gentleman."

He abruptly tipped Bella out of her seat, sat and then scooped her onto his lap.

Bella always drew him back in, where he belonged, mused Esme. Everyone had threads.

"Some gentleman," Bella was complaining. "I'm too heavy. We'll break the chair."

"Nonsense," he replied. "Stay here." His belt buckle bit into her backside. Bella tried not to squirm too much on his lap as she awkwardly tried to perch. She could almost hear his eyebrows arching. She could only ruefully imagine what his view was like.

She sat upright for several minutes, finding it difficult to keep her back so straight when he was slouched in the seat. Her muscles trembled from the effort, and she dangled her feet in the air, trying to keep her knees pressed together- no easy feat when he had his thighs spread so far apart. She was just formulating an excuse for more coffee when his fingers stroked against her waist.

"Relax, would you?" he said loudly, irritated. With a small sigh of resignation she did as he said, lay back, and the hot cradle of his body made her eyes want to close. Her head dropped into the curve of his neck. His skin was hot and burned through the layers of cotton between them. She could feel his body flexing against her spine, and he shifted slightly and as she rolled into an even more comfortable position, she allowed grudgingly that he was.… ergonomic. She felt him shaking in silent laughter.

"Looking comfy you two," commented Rose, watching them both with interest. Emmett had obviously told her of the little façade they were attempting.

"Don't they just look so perfect together?"

Embarrassment pinked Bella's cheeks and made her try to slide off. Rose's comment was just too obvious. Subtlety did not come easy to her.

Edward's arm came around her instantly, and she was forced to lie back again.

"Did I ever tell you about the night that Edward and Bella were born?" Esme began, smiling at Carlisle as he held out a glass with a straw for her to sip.

"Yes, but tell us again," urged Rose. Esme was famous for always telling the same family stories over and over. It was a comforting rhythm; and they soaked up her words, now all the more precious. She always started this story in the same way.

"Well, it was a Thursday evening. Renee was here helping me finish up the nursery for Edward's arrival. I had helped her with Bella's the night before. We spent the evening folding up tiny clothes, and putting sheets on the little mattress in the crib. Everything was looking so perfect. It was the room that is still yours Edward; the gold room."

Esme paused, took another sip of water. Her voice was very thin, but she continued.

"I started having contractions, and Carlisle drove Renee home. But then he brought her back again, because before they even made it to her house, Renee had felt a contraction too. God, I laughed so hard I thought I'd have Edward right here on the floor.

"It was lovely, actually, going through that kind of experience with your best friend." Esme smiled at Bella. "She was the most beautiful person. She was funny and sweet and couldn't stop talking. She just bubbled over everywhere, all the time. She had a glow."

Bella closed her eyes, enjoying the story, feeling the rise and fall of Edward's body, his arm around her waist, his fingers under the edge of her top. She suddenly missed her mother, the faint memory of her acutely. She hated that she had to remember her mother through fading photographs. Esme was the only loving historian she would be able to hear things like this from. Her father never even mentioned Renee's name.

Edward's arm tightened, and she rested her cheek on his hot, spicy sweet shoulder, feeling the slow thud of his heart beneath her.

"Edward was born at five am on that Friday morning. It was a quick labour, thank goodness. Bella, you were born at the much more civilized time of eight am. You came rushing into this world, crying like you were already asking where Edward was."

Edward sighed deeply beneath her, lifting her body with the swell of his chest.

"She was no doubt anxious to start completely taking over my life."

Bella wrinkled her forehead against his neck. "Are you serious?""

Esme was determined to finish the story. She loved watching the two, curled around each other. It was fitting, given the part of the story she was up to.

"You both looked so sweet asleep in your cribs. Back in those days, babies slept in the maternity room, all lined up in cribs in neat little rows. Renee and I couldn't bear the thought of leaving you in there. We shouldn't have, and we got in trouble from the ward nurse in the morning, but we put Bella into Edward's crib, and it was just so beautiful, our two little babies asleep side by side."

They all fell silent, smiling at Esme's whimsy. Rose was lifting a tear away from her eye with the back of her hand.

"How bout it? Want to reenact our first night on the planet?" Edward said in a leering voice, ruining the poignant moment and giving her a slight jiggle.

Everyone burst out laughing, even Esme, and Carlisle caught Bella's eye, shaking his head in unwilling amusement.

"Well, no, I don't fancy a night in a crib with you, thanks anyway," Bella said, trying to swallow her giggles.

"Your loss," Edward countered. He stretched, enjoying her warmth.

Suddenly, Bella's phone began ringing. She managed to pull it out of her pocket to read the caller ID. Michael Office. Edward's arm tightened around her.

"Excuse me, I have to take this," Bella muttered, squirming and floundering for several moments until he released her, and she hurried from the room.

"Hello?" she said as she hurried to the end of the hallway, running lightly down the stairs.

"Bella, how are you?" Michael's voice was pleasant and even. He always sounded professional, even when making a private call to her. His office made his voice echo.

If she was truthful with herself, she hated speaking with Michael on the phone. He always sounded like a different person.

"Good, how are you?" Her voice was hushed as she looked back up the stairs. No sign of Edward.

Michael sighed. "Tired, actually."

"How's the case going?" She lingered in the hallway, leaning against the door to her bedroom. The shadows slanted deeper and deeper, until they were interrupted by the light from Edward's open bedroom door.

"It's been a nightmare. One of the jurors spoke with a newspaper journalist last night, so we're having to start from scratch and get a new jury in."

He paused. "They spoke to someone from the Oregonian, actually."

Bella immediately felt terrible, and guessed who it might have been.

"Oh, please tell me it wasn't Maxine. She should have known better. She's been talking about this case for weeks now, how it would be good exposure for her to have her name attached to it. I'm sorry."

Bella began pacing up and down the hallway, not realizing that each orbit of the hallway pulled her slightly closer to Edward's room. She began picking at the hem of her sweater.

"She's been fishing for details from me. She never believed me when I said that we don't ever talk about cases."

Michael lowered his voice until he was almost whispering.

"You know I have to be so careful; people already talk about it, me being linked up with the media. Being with you has made me a bit of a target for this. I have to make sure I'm beyond reproach. I've just been dragged over the coals for this."

"I've said I'm sorry. That was nothing I had control over. I'll speak to her."

"Yes, well." There was silence.

"Esme's awake, talking to us," she finally said, resentment heating her voice. "Even though you haven't even asked about her."

Michael sighed. "Yes, I was getting to that. How are the family coping?"

"They're OK. They're all back now. Even Edward's here." She felt strange even saying his name to Michael. Guilt twinged inside her gut.

"Tell him one of my colleagues is a big admirer of his work." Michael loved having connections with successful people. Even if he had never met or spoken with Edward, he would have still worked it into conversation during Tuesday morning racquetball.

"I'll tell him."

"Yes, apparently he did a really interesting series of portraits of the Afghani poppy farmers that's being put together as an exhibition."

Bella chewed on her lip.

"I don't know about that," she said, "He doesn't tell us much about his work."

"Well, my colleague would be really grateful if you can hook him up somehow. Those sort of things are invite only."

Bella could only imagine Edward's scornful look if she asked him. She hummed noncommittally.

"How long are you going to be down there?" Michael asked, and Bella could hear paper rustling.

"You mean, how long until the funeral? Is that what you're asking me?" She snapped.

Michael paused. "You're not being fair. You know that's not what I meant. I just want to know when to expect you home. I hear that being engaged generally means you know when you'll see the other person again."

"Why, do you miss me?" Bella asked, desperate for him to give her something, anything. She was aware she was being a brat. It was like the phone line was robbing her of any connection to him.

"Of course I miss you," he soothed. "We only just got engaged, and you left so quickly. I've got colleagues asking me when we're having an engagement party." He was trying to cheer her up, but she didn't want to be cheered.

"Well, I'm not exactly in the mood to book an engagement party just at the moment, Michael." Her temper was rising.

"I'll hire someone then. Mark gave me the number of someone apparently quite good."

Bella couldn't stand the thought of him talking weddings and parties. It was too soon.

"That's not what I meant. I'm feeling really upset over Esme. I won't want to have a party."

"Oh Bella, I know. I'm sorry." He paused, then his voice sounded muffled. He was paranoid about being overheard at work.

"You must have missed me, too, right? I had a missed call from you pretty late."

Bella frowned. "I guess I must have called you from my pocket or something. Sorry about that."

"Flatter me, why don't you," Michael said, hurt.

"Oh, I didn't mean it that way. Of course I miss you."

"I have to go, my other line is ringing. I'll talk to you later." He hung up.

She put her phone in her pocket, making sure she locked the keypad this time. That conversation hadn't gone well. She felt like a teenage girl who had argued with her father.

She found herself standing in the doorway to the gold room. She hadn't seen inside his room in years. The huge, canopied bed, raised on a slight platform, dominated the room, the blankets rumpled and twisted. The dull copper filigree wallpaper, the heavy gold curtains tinged the light in the room the color of champagne.

The white room was always cool, cold, but this room was warm, and littered with clues.

She couldn't help herself. She took one tiny step into the room, looking at his leather jacket over a chair, his laptop, his black camera with lenses of various lengths, probably ten thousand dollars worth of photographic equipment scattered over his desk. The laptop was open, its screen dark.

There were sneakers and records everywhere, and black clothes hemorrhaged all over the carpet from his military backpack. The sight of the army bag threw her a bit. She tried, and failed, to imagine Edward traveling with troops or being in any type of regimented situation. God knows how they handled him. She supposed that people with talent got away with more than the average person.

She wandered to the foot of his bed, acutely aware that she was walking a dangerous line by being in here, but somehow unable to stop. Everything was fascinating. She wanted to look, and touch, and try to work him out.

She saw a bottle on top of his dresser. Maybe that was the cologne he wore. Finally, she would have a name for the spicy apple scent.

"Looking for something?" Edward asked, causing her to jump in fright. She slowly turned. He stood in the doorway, wearing a scowl.

"Edward, I'm so sorry," she said, dropping her eyes to the floor. Her face burned in humiliation. She of all people knew how important privacy was.

"It's alright," he said, surprising her. "Look around."

Bella stood frozen in place, biting her lip and shaking her head, allowing her hair to fall around her face, concealing it from him. She mistrusted his offer, especially coupled with that expression.

"No, I need to…. Go and unpack my stuff."

He sauntered in, sat in his desk chair and spun around.

"I don't have any secrets from you."

Bella frowned in puzzlement. "Yes, you do. Everything is a secret."

He picked up his camera, selecting a lens without taking his eyes from hers, and fitted it onto the camera. "No, I don't. Please, look around. I insist."

She crossed uncertainly to the opposite wall, her feet sinking into the plush carpet, and looked at the floor to ceiling bookshelf. She turned back to him and heard his camera's shutter close. She wasn't particularly surprised. He had taken countless test shots of her over the years, toying around with new equipment, testing the light.

"Is that a new lens?" she asked.

"No…" Edward frowned slightly, squinting at her through the view, adjusting the lens further with his long fingers, taking several more frames. He lowered the camera and stared at her.

"Stop that," she said, tucking her hair behind her ears. She turned back to his shelf, running her fingers along the spines of the books. He had read all of them, she knew. He kept most of his books here, because he didn't want the bother of shipping them to… wherever it was he lived. She realized with a start that she had no idea where he lived.

She turned the volume knob on the stereo down and shot him a pointed look. He nodded.

She went to his bedside table. It was covered in coins, not all of them US currency, and a fat roll of notes. Fifties, she realized with a start. There was a leather cuff, and a watch, and his keys. There was a medication bottle, but she didn't want to read the label. There was a crystal glass, and a bottle of scotch, about two thirds empty.

She paused, puzzled, as she spotted her copy of Wuthering Heights which lay open on his pillow, and turned back to him, holding it up.

He sat impassively in his chair, his ankle on his opposite knee.

"I had to check out the competition," he said, smirking slightly. "Well, tried to, anyway."

She smiled. "You've got nothing on Heathcliff."

She opened the book at the page it lay open at.

_I was a fool to fancy for a moment that she valued Edgar Linton's attachment more than mine — If he loved with all the powers of his puny being, he couldn't love as much in eighty years, as I could in a day. And Catherine has a heart as deep as I have; the sea could be as readily contained in that house-trough, as her whole affection be monopolized by him — Tush! He is scarcely a degree nearer than her dog, or her horse — It is not in him to be loved like me, how can she love in him what he has not?_

Bella's smile slipped and she snapped the book shut, tossed it on his bed.

"Can I look at anything in this room?" she asked, testing him, her hand wrapping around the bed's post. Her eyes rested on the laptop that sat behind him.

He twisted around, accidentally bumping the laptop and jolting it out of its screensaver. A frame of a white clad man seated cross legged on a dirt roadside, with US Army personnel standing over him, filled the screen.

"No, you can't look in there."

Bella was annoyed. She was a journalist too, sort of, she thought.

"Please? It would be fascinating."

He closed the laptop.

"I don't want you looking in there. There are things in there that are…… pretty awful." He gestured vaguely.

"What do you say to the argument that a photograph is just a self portrait of the photographer?" Bella tossed at him, trying to tease him, to regain some of her footing, but regretting the cruel words the moment they left her lips.

Edward held her in his camera frame as she crossed to the window and pulled the curtains open. He stood and dragged an antique chair from against the wall to beside the window.

"Sit, please." He wheeled his chair opposite hers, their knees almost touching. He raised his camera.

The artist in him could appreciate the soft light and the framing of her face as she gazed unflinchingly at him through the lens.

She had never been the type of girl to cover her face, to beg to at least fix her hair and makeup, and it was a relief. She somehow seemed to understand that the camera was essentially just an extension of him; that it saw what he saw.

He took frame after frame of her face, glowing gold, the tiny glittering dust particles floating around her like she was in a snow globe.

Every dark strand of her hair was defined and gilded in light. Her skin was flawless and clean as a peach.

"You seemed to paint my job in a pretty fucking noble light to Esme upstairs."

He lowered the camera, adjusted it to high speed continuous and brushed at the grit and sand that had accumulated in its crevices. Holding it up again, he stared through the viewfinder, wondering at the flickering changes behind her eyes as she stared back at him, her unsmiling rosebud mouth grave and sweet.

As she spoke, he compulsively took frames.

"Not many people voluntarily walk towards war. To be in that moment of catastrophe, when someone's life has just been changed, or ended, and to actually force yourself to turn back and look at the horror through your camera, and actually make yourself see it, and have it together enough to compose a shot. It's… I have a lot of respect for what you do."

She fell silent. It was like with each blink of her eyes, she wore a different expression, although the rest of her face was still. The camera effortlessly captured it. With each touch of his finger the camera took ten frames.

Confused. Sad. Yearning. Grieving. Alone. Lost. Exposed. Scared. Vulnerable. He had photographed countless faces over the years, but had never seen eyes that changed like that.

He stopped clicking.

"Do you feel connected to the people in your photos? Or does the camera give you objectivity?" She asked, unsettled by his unblinking stare. He said nothing. He just continued to stare, his thumb idly rubbing circles against the camera's button.

"I'm connected," he eventually said. "Too connected."

He looked out the window. "But at the same time, it doesn't touch me. I'm numb from some things."

She was desperate to lighten the mood. The atmosphere was suddenly heavy with words unsaid.

"There's probably not even any film in that thing," she commented, crossing to his dresser to pick up the bottle.

"It's digital, you nerd." He said. He watched her sniff the inside of the cologne's cap, noted her slightly creased brow. "What?"

She ducked her head, embarrassed. "This isn't you." She held the bottle up.

"Christ no, that's Emmett's. Dad thought it was mine. It smells like a date rapist. I don't wear anything."

There was an awkward pause. "But I smell nice to you, though, right?" he asked, unable to resist. She was just too easy to tease.

She looked down at her hands, and then at his bed. It was huge. The sheets were a silky buttermilk colour. She felt her face start to burn.

"Why don't you get ready for lunch?" He said suddenly.

"So, we really are going to lunch?" she said.

He looked at her strangely. "Yes, what did you think we were going to do?"

"Um, I don't know, maybe you have stuff to do and you'd drop me off somewhere…"

Edward was suddenly furious.

"What, drop you off on the side of the road, maybe? No, I'm taking you out to lunch. On a date. Really. So you'd better get ready."

Her cell started ringing as she walked to her room.

She checked the screen: Angela Mobile.

He made his voice hard as she walked down the hallway, away from him.

"That better not be him again. Don't let me hear you telling that fucker again that you miss him, ever again."

Edward sat for a long time with his feet on her chair, watching the dust swirl where she had been.

He hooked up the camera to his laptop.

He flicked back through the gold photos of her beside the window over and over again, looking at her eyes, trying to find a particular frame.

He couldn't find it.

**A/N: Reviewing earns you a photo session with Edward. Or, if you prefer, a slight jiggle. **


	9. Chapter 8: A Long Way

**A/N **

**I do not own Twilight, or any of its characters, it all belongs to Stephenie Meyer!**

**Thank you to everyone reading, and thank you bookbag. I literally could not sharpen my pencil without her. You think I'm kidding. **

* * *

**Chapter Eight: A Long Way  
**

This was the longest fucking twenty minutes ever, Edward thought crossly, shifting in the driver's seat.

Bella had _seemed_ happy enough as they had chatted with Carlisle in the driveway. Carlisle showed them the new flowerbeds around the side of the house. He had finally gotten around to planting the bulbs, just in time. By spring, there would be all of Esme's favourites; tulips, jonquils, irises and lilies.

They had all looked at the freshly dug earth, and looked away.

Bella had looked into Carlisle's dark eyes and gently wiped dirt from his cheek. Edward's eyes had followed the movement, her lovely slim fingers so tender. He rubbed at his own cheek, which was tingling.

She had even linked her fingers loosely in Edward's, giving his arm a playful swing as they walked to his car.

Her thoughts were nothing but Carlisle, Esme, the weather, the garden. Edward had felt relief and a strange euphoria that they were getting away from this place for a bit, laying the sadness down in Carlisle's flowerbed, and that she was with him. For an entire afternoon, she was all his.

As soon as she got into the car though, it was like she shut down. He realized that it had all been a show for Carlisle's benefit. He had felt a jolt, deep in his stomach, as he realized how good an actor she could be, even in her thoughts.

The silence had stretched on unbearably, until he could bear it no longer and turned up the stereo as loud as it would go. He was glad he'd replaced the original radio. The drums reminded him of gunshots, soothing his suddenly frayed nerves. He wondered what sort of music she liked; he couldn't remember.

He suddenly became excruciatingly aware that all the lyrics seemed laden with meaning and subliminal messages, all words of pleading and misunderstandings and need, and he changed tracks compulsively, barraging them with shards of music. He didn't want her to think he was giving her messages through song. That would be just too fucking pathetic.

Bella sat, twisted away from him in her seat, one foot tucked up on the seat and her arms around her knee. Her eyes were trained on the never ending rows of silvered trunks and spear ferns that lined the road. Those trees had seen them pass so many times before.

She appeared tranquil, untouchable, seemingly unperturbed by the assaults on her ear drums. Her face was as smooth as if she was listening to Brahms in a concert hall. He wanted to shake her up; activate her. She looked like she wasn't here. Her eyes were mirrors.

He fantasized about pulling the car over, taking her face in his hands, making her eyes flash, her pulse spike. He imagined rubbing his lips over her cheekbones, and licking at her honeyed mouth. Sucking on her fingertips, rolling the sensitive pads against his tongue, scraping his teeth against her nails. Anything to just relight the spark inside her. Frustration blasted through him, and he clamped it down, gripping the steering wheel like a life preserver.

The stretch of road was like something out of a dream. Bella was teetering on the edge of déjà vu, not realising that it was because the light was the same in Edward's bedroom. The light filtered pale amber through the remaining maple leaves and feathery pines that clasped themselves together over the winding road, dropping weak sunbursts onto the windshield.

With each twist in the road, Bella and Edward leaned together, then away from each other.

Edward was too big for this tiny car and he seemed to fill it up with his endless legs. The seats were low and his casually flung out arm rested against hers. She could feel his eyes on her constantly. His leather jacket was brushing against her upper arm. Even his clothes were begging for her attention. She watched his hand holding the slim steering wheel out of the corner of her eye, noted the tension in his forearm.

The car smelt like dust, oil, leather and Edward.

Bella liked to imagine Carlisle driving it around campus, the gorgeous young medical student she had seen in so many old photos. She half smiled wistfully as she imagined him taking Esme out for their first date in this car.  
How lovely it must have been, she thought. To be on a date with the one you were meant for.

She could only imagine how Esme must have felt, sitting where she was sitting now, looking over at Carlisle, knowing she was home. His goodness and pureness shining through him like a stained glass window. Gentle. Romantic. Faithful.

If only these gifts had been genetic, she thought darkly, looking over at Edward, who appeared to be having some sort of musical seizure. He was wrenching the car around each bend as though he was fighting with it, like it was an out of control horse. Occasionally, he wrapped his long fingers around the stick shift and kicked at the clutch, as though trying to make the car submit.

He looked over at her for the hundredth time, and she avoided his eyes, running her hand over the dashboard instead.

The beautiful car ran well and still earned admiring glances. Carlisle still occasionally took it out for a drive. But mainly it lay in the garage, covered in tarpaulins, languishing for Edward.

Edward reached for her hand, but she snatched it back defensively and sat on it. He sighed heavily, and crammed his Raybans onto his face. He began digging around in the glove box, finally unearthing a pale pink lollipop.

He offered it to Bella, who shook her head. He tore the wrapper off with his teeth, spat it onto his lap and stuck it in his cheek.

"What the fuck's the matter?" He asked finally, his voice thick. He rolled the ball of sugar against the tip of his tongue, the strawberry unexpectedly tart.

She turned to look at him. Her eyes were so tired that he looked back at the road. She let out a sigh that seemed to come from her bones, debating what good could come of this argument.

"When did you turn into the queen of passive aggression?" Edward demanded curtly. "Just spit it out."

"I know that you tried to call Michael last night," she said so quietly that Edward turned down the stereo.

"Oh, that," he said, and burst out laughing. "Yes. Busted."

He overtook a truck, relieved. He could work this out. He'd done worse than this before, and she'd forgiven him. He began to hum in time to the music, his fingers tapping the wheel.

"Well, I can't say I'm surprised, but I'm really angry and upset that you did that," Bella continued. He stopped humming.

"You haven't changed a bit in six years." Bella knew she was wrong to make such simplified statements about someone so complex. She remembered what he did for a living, and tamped down twin feelings of guilt and annoyance.

There was a long silence.

"But I didn't get through, so no harm done," Edward said. "I won't try it again. I promise." His contrite blink was wasted behind his sunglasses.

"I suppose it's a sad reflection on us that I'm not surprised by your constant interference." She laced her fingers together to still their trembling.

"What's a sad reflection?" Edward responded, bristling. "I need to speak to this guy."

"Why? So you can strategize better? Make yourself better than him? Break us up?" Her words rang in the car like a bell.  
It was exactly the sort of thing he would do, and he snorted in delight despite himself.

If only he had grown out of his obsessive desire to keep her to himself, she thought in desperation. It was a game he never grew tired of. But it made no sense to her, because he didn't even want the prize he constantly sought.

"Even if you got me, you wouldn't have the first clue what to do with me." As soon as the words left her mouth, she burned with embarrassment. That had come out all wrong.

He pulled the lollipop from his mouth, rubbing it over his bottom lip insolently, making it sticky and pink.

"I would know _exactly_ what to do with you. I've had so many years to think it over." He held the glistening lollipop aloft suggestively, and then put it back on his tongue. "I'd suck on you, until you dissolved."

She dropped her hair to conceal her red cheeks. His lips quirked at her shyness, and risked a squeeze of her denim-clad thigh.

"Lighten up. We're out of the house. We're going to the beach, just you and me." He smiled at her rakishly, his perfect teeth lightly nibbling the stick. She narrowed her eyes, refusing to be dragged into his orbit. When he was happy, he was all but impossible to resist.

"Can't we just have fun?" He said impatiently, his smile fading. There was so little time, and they were wasting it. She was still closed, locked off, stubbornly refusing to let go. He'd know that mouth anywhere. A little pout that just needed a good kiss.

"No." She replied. "And this conversation is not over. I know-"

He tried to distract her by walking his fingers up her thigh. She continued, delivering a stinging slap to his hand.

"I know that you tried to call Angela as well."

He glanced in the rear view mirror as if he hadn't heard.

"Why would you pick that name, of all the people to call?" Bella prayed that it was random. Maybe he had started with the A's and had been interrupted.

For once, Edward told the truth straight away.

"I saw a message that you sent her that seemed strange. Don't worry, I only got her voicemail. Angela from the Portland Psychology Centre." He stuck his still smarting hand into his hair.

"Why are you going there?" He paused. "Oh, wait. Is she just a friend of yours?"

Bella laughed hollowly. "No, Edward, you don't get out of this one. Yes, I see a psychologist. I've been in therapy in one form or another ever since I left Forks."

Edward suddenly hated this conversation.

He blurted out the words that always seemed to be on the tip of his tongue when he was with her.

"Is this about me?"

Her sigh was harsh, impatient. "Yes. This is one instance where it is, in fact, all about you."

He swerved the car abruptly around a rental car full of tourists, knocking her about in her seat.

His voice was soft. "I know I was really difficult to live with when we were growing up. How could I not know that? But you've always known how to handle me."

He cast a look at her, and was dismayed to see how hopeless her expression was as she gazed unseeing out into the forest.

"You just don't get it, do you?" she whispered, almost not speaking to him at all. "You will never understand."

"Make me understand then," he offered rashly.  
"If that's what it takes, you can scream at me. You can tell me all the awful things that I've done. We won't leave this beach until I understand, and you feel better." He paused. "And you can tell me why you went away."

Bella looked at her own reflection in the car's window, speaking to herself as well as him.

"I hope you're prepared to take a long walk, then."

*o*o*o*o*o*o

The curved black whip of road finally ended, curling into a gravel parking lot, and Bella leapt from the car the moment it was stationary, the scent of the sea engulfing her.

Edward suddenly found it necessary to double check his bag of equipment.

She walked from the car park without a backwards glance. The wind pushed against her legs, nudging her along, moving her away from him.

She shielded her eyes. She hadn't been here in years; probably since they were kids. Even then, they usually went to First Beach for swimming.

It was as if this beach was where the sea stored its surplus. The entire beach was lined with driftwood. Not just pieces, but entire, bleached trunks, heaped by the hands of the ocean in surprisingly neat formations, ghostly grey against their backdrop of forest.

Edward was right; the tide was out. Usually, the skipping stones beneath her feet would be stained black by the water, but now they were dry; lilacs and ivory.

She nibbled on her lip as she thought back to earlier that morning, and the call she had answered as she left Edward's room.

"Bella, its Angela. Is everything OK?" Angela's voice had sounded concerned.

Bella let herself into the white room, wandered to the window. She half smiled as she saw Carlisle out pruning the rose bushes. The bare branches clutched at him as he methodically snipped them away, his actions as though he were chiding naughty children.

"I'm fine, Angela. It's all fine. I mean, yesterday was a bit of a disaster, but…"

Angela interrupted her.

"I had a missed call from your cell last night. Really late. I was worried."

The realisation spread inside her and she opened her mouth.

"The voicemail message that was left was very odd. I'm guessing you weren't there? It was a man talking, but I don't think he knew he was through to voicemail. He just said 'psychology?' "

Bella rested her forehead against the window. "That would have been the infamous Edward."

"Don't panic Bella," Angela said quickly, reassuringly. "I would never give out confidential information about my clients."

Bella sighed heavily. "Don't worry. He has a way of getting confidential information out of me any time he likes."

"Are you referring to his manipulation?" Angela asked. "Remember the things we've worked on. You can only be manipulated if you allow it."

"It's a bit more complicated than that," Bella admitted, walking to sit on the edge of her bed.  
She hadn't ever mentioned Edward's particular gift. She would have sounded completely crazy.

This annoyance never faded. She couldn't even be completely honest with her therapist because of Edward. Or with anyone, for that matter. He continually robbed her of any chance at total honesty.

Bella lowered her voice. "Yesterday went terribly. I feel so guilty. He kissed me within hours of arriving. And I could barely pull myself away. He's still got so much hold over me."

There was silence as Angela formulated her advice.

"Well, Bella, you need to talk this out with Edward. If he's going to insist on spending time with you when you're down there, this might be a good opportunity to tell him how his behaviour impacted on you . And maybe Michael can join you down there soon. Remind Edward that you're not available any more."

Bella's stomach clutched in terror. Michael wouldn't make it out of Forks alive. She wouldn't be covering that court case; she'd be a key witness.

"Edward stole my phone last night, I'm pretty sure he tried to call Michael too."

Angela laughed softly. "He's behaving like a child. Just don't give him the satisfaction."

Indeed, thought Bella sourly, as she continued along the beach, her shoes slipping on the polished stones and petrified wood. The wind was picking up, and the smudgy clouds on the horizon hinted at a brewing storm offshore. There was a line of hikers, off in the distance, but apart from that, the beach was deserted.

She picked her way further along and found a low log to sit on. She watched Edward, starkly black against the dove greys, as he slowly approached. His jeans lovingly detailed his thighs as he bent to examine the inside of a log's hollow. He had his camera strap wrapped around his wrist, and he occasionally took quick shots of the huge hulking rock formations off the coast, the stones beneath his feet.

She stood up and continued walking. He took some cursory frames of the driftwood stacks, barely looking at them, and ran to catch up with her.

He walked in front of her backwards, raising his camera. She seemed unperturbed by having an impromptu paparazzo.

He caught her, held her in his viewfinder, and began to take shots.

The wind helpfully lifted her hair and tumbled it gently around her face, ribbons of brown and black. Her eyes, huge and liquid in her pale face, almost seemed to see straight through him as she advanced.

He began to circle her slowly, his finger pressed almost continuously on the button. Such great light, he told himself.

Finally she stopped, giving him a bored look, tired of it. He took one final shot, this time of her profile as she turned to look at the hulking rocks off the coast.

"Come on," he said, bumping his shoulder against hers companionably. "We've got a long way to go."

"Where _are_ we going?" she asked. "I thought we were having lunch somewhere."

He looked at for a long moment, then squinted off to the horizon.

"We're going to The Hole in the Wall." He watched her, gauging her reaction.

Bella had forgotten about this beach's major drawcard. It was a natural archway in one of the rock formations that could only be accessed in low tide. A natural arch, it was a major drawcard for the area. It was miles away. It would take hours.

She looked down at her sandy sneakers, back at the car, and then back at Edward, completely torn. She really did not want to go so far. The wind was picking up, and over Edward's shoulder she saw a lightening strike the sea.

"Are we doing this?" He said, but she knew he meant more.

For the first time in years, it was she who held out her hand, and for the first time he took it reluctantly.

They began the long trek, and the silence was disrupted only by the shrieks of sea birds and the endless surge of the surf.

She cast her mind back, to that awful night, and poured her mind into the hand that held hers.

* * *

**A/N: I'm sorry for ending it there. Aren't I mean. **

**Reviewers will pull over to the side of the road with Edward, for as long as it takes. **


	10. Chapter 9: Flight

**A/N: I do not own Twilight, or any of its characters, it all belongs to Stephenie Meyer!**

**Thank you ****bookbag****, and all you beautiful people in forums talking about this ****fic****. How can I ever thank you?**

**Here's what Bella remembers about _that _New Years Eve. **

* * *

**Chapter Nine: Flight  
**

Bella's heart had tripped and skipped for hours before the New Years Eve party. The Cullen Dimension was crammed full of strangers preparing the house. There were caterers in the kitchen, baking tiny appetisers in batches. There were florists arranging huge urns of flowers. The air smelt like blossoms and pastry.

Hundreds of tea lights lined the stairs to the house, flanked the stairs, waiting to be lit at last. There was a man raking the gravel in the driveway.

Bella had been overwhelmed by the hive of activity and had gone back to Charlie's house to get ready with Alice.

In the few months that Alice had been at Forks High, she was the only one who had bothered getting to know Bella.  
She was Bella's new best friend by default- she was actually her only friend, other than Edward and Emmett.

Bella tentatively trusted her. She was fun, and light, and made her feel normal. She was quirky and deemed slightly eccentric.  
It was no wonder she got along so famously with Esme when she came to visit. She greeted Edward for the first time with a polite smile and a firm handshake, and then crossed to Emmett to give him the same.

She therefore passed the test. She never fished for information about Edward, and was only interested in being outside, walking, talking and people watching.

Alice looked gorgeous as always that night, even though she had only given a cursory consideration to her appearance. She stood in a plain grey wool dress, and yellow ballet flats, no makeup and short, choppy hair. She looked like a sparrow. Bella analysed the outfit over and over, trying to put her finger on what made it work, before realising it was confidence.

Bella was wearing the red dress that Esme gave her for Christmas, but confidence was sorely lacking in her respect. The dress was exposing too much. Her arms and legs were lily white, and the feeling of the stiff silk tickling against her legs instead of denim was unsettling.

Still, as the girls talked, Bella gradually forgot about how much she was revealing.

Bella sat on the edge of the bathtub with her head tipped forward as Alice stood over her, winding her hair around a curling iron methodically.

"Have you made a decision yet?" Alice asked.

Bella felt sick again, and dragged breath into her trembling lungs.

There had been a meeting at school several weeks ago. The school counselor had submitted some of her school newspaper articles to an International student placement network, and Bella had been offered a three month scholarship in their Journalism and Communications program.

It would mean initially interning for a medical aid organisation, learning to write press releases and publicity articles. It was an amazing opportunity that could be counted as partial credit for college.

However, she was under no delusions as to why she had been so conveniently nominated.

Edward had become increasingly unstable in the last few months and the strain was showing on both of them.  
It was as if her resistance was eating at him. He was constantly furious, on edge. Testosterone trickled, seemingly undiluted, through his veins.

He had been recently suspended for a week for a knocking out the upper incisor of a foolhardy male during gym. Edward's defence was that he had made an undisclosed remark about Bella's gym skirt.

"A notoriously hard tooth to knock out, so they say," Edward had said afterwards as he lay on her bed, busily tearing a deck of cards to shreds.

"Of course, it's not that difficult if you have enough motivation," he mused arrogantly.

Edward, thoroughly disgraced, had been placed under house arrest. He was restless, roaming the hallways, his hands desperate for sensation.

He stroked the picture frames he passed, and scratched the banisters as he descended. He took no pleasure in his photography.

He slid into rooms soundlessly, making Esme spill her coffee on the white needlepoint tablecloth.

He used all the hot water. He ate everything in the refrigerator.

Being imprisoned and being apart from Bella was not an entire loss. His schedule was now pleasingly free to dream up new ways to toy with her; to give full consideration to various Machiavellian blueprints, which if executed correctly, would almost certainly result in her passionately kissing him in front of the basketball team.

Carlisle, arriving home from the hospital into the fog of male hormone, had gently suggested that Bella decamp to her barren, impersonal bedroom at Charlie's. Edward watched from the window like a ghoul as she climbed into the car.

At the school conference, which Carlisle and Esme attended without question, Bella was asked to wait outside.

She could still hear through the wafer walls the other reasons for her to take the internship.  
It would enable her to break free from this unhealthy co dependence. Anyone could see she was a good girl being taken over entirely. Her excellent grades were starting to slip; she was obviously unwell and exhausted. Attempts to send her to another school had failed.

Tears made the florescent lights starry as she had heard the Cullens' murmured apologies to Charlie. Their promises to pay for her flights.

Bella told Alice that she hadn't decided yet. Charlie was letting her decide, but her passport had arrived that morning. It lay in her bedside drawer, glowing, radioactive.

"But what are you going to do about Edward?" Alice asked, and Bella had been glad that her head was upside down and that her face was hidden by half formed curls. She pretended ignorance.

"Well," Alice had said, "He's not going to let you go."

This was not news to Bella.

"Why don't you want Edward?" Alice asked, genuinely interested. "He's supremely gorgeous, and he adores you."

"He'd eat me alive," Bella had replied. "It's complicated enough already. If we had sex, it would make him even worse."

Alice had laughed. "It's so romantic." She kept curling. "I wish I had someone who felt that way about me. He's darkly, desperately in love with you." Her voice had a strange note in it, and Bella's brow creased.

Alice was as always undeterred by Bella's silence. "If someone loved me like that, I wouldn't know how to handle it."

"I still don't know how to handle it," Bella told her. "It's too much. Besides, he doesn't feel that way about me, exactly. I don't know what he feels."

"What about you?" Alice asked, sitting her upright and pinning the curls up onto the top of her head. "Are you in love with him?"

"God, no," Bella told the one lie she could actually deliver convincingly.

"We were raised together. He's practically my brother."

The familiar knot of panic settled in her stomach when female acquaintances wove Edward into conversation.

Alice wasn't so much subtly weaving. She was spray painting. Bella turned up the stereo in an attempt to signal that the conversation was over.

"Be truthful," Alice persisted, shouting over the music as Bella misted herself with perfume.  
"You can't tell me you haven't thought about it. You sleep down the hall from him."  
Bella said nothing. Of course she had thought about it. Every day, for years.

Charlie drove the girls to the party. He muttered as he pulled up in the Cullens' drive that he would come to the party after his shift ended. He hated parties. He probably would go straight home and make an excuse.

Bella walked up the stairs into the Cullen house, the same house she had been in virtually every day since her mother's death, yet she hardly recognized it. It was beautiful; finally achieving its full potential. The house was full of people, elegantly dressed, handling crystal glasses and taking morsels from passing wait staff.

There was Ella Fitzgerald music playing. Bella, in her red dress, curls and red lipstick, suddenly felt like they were all in wartime, closeted together to make the most of each other's company and any pinch of luxury they could find. To live, and love, before the air raid sirens started.

Bella was pierced by the image, and felt young and impossibly happy. She was able to walk into the room with more confidence, with Alice's arm linked through hers. The atmosphere was suddenly filled with possibilities. There were some classmates there, and as Carlisle smilingly handed her an inch of champagne, Bella locked eyes with Edward.

He looked like the devil in the tuxedo that Esme had insisted on. His hair was ruffled and twisted, and his eyes stripped the dress from her curves as she shivered.

Bella leant against the wall for support, chatting with Alice, and watched him surreptitiously throughout the evening.

He sat directly opposite her, across the room in the centre of a small grouping of chairs against the wall, slouched in boredom, his detested bowtie already dragged loose. He hadn't even bothered shaving. He had his camera with him, but was not taking photos of the guests as requested by Esme. He shook his head at all offerings of food by the wait staff. He ignored everyone around him.

He did nothing but sprawl in his seat, motionless, except for his eyes.

Edward looked at her once in about every twenty seconds. Bella timed him. She stole another glass of unattended champagne, attempting to quench the fire in her chest. He frowned as he saw her tip the glass back, yet his eyes hinted at a perplexed amusement.

She saw him ignoring girls who tugged at his sleeves, her breath catching in her throat every time his lamplight eyes caught hers. Her pulse felt like a fingertip softly tapping at her throat. Faster now.

She smoothed her dress down, and his eyes followed her hands as she adjusted the low neckline. He raked his eyes down over her dress and her exposed limbs.

His jaw flexed as she spoke with one of Emmett's male friends, but he made no move from his seat.

Carlisle beckoned to Edward. He reluctantly stood and walked directly towards her, cutting through the crowd, and her knees trembled.

He snapped his eyes away from hers and veered towards Carlisle.

Suddenly shaky, shy, she went to the bathroom, locked herself in and studied herself in the mirror. Wondered what he was looking at.

She realised she looked like a different person. Alice had somehow sculpted her into a more beautiful, more alluring version of herself. Her skin was milk white, her dark eyes sultry beneath their black feathery lashes. Her body was an hourglass, wrapped in silk; unadorned by jewellery.

She checked her lipstick and stepped back out. Her stomach was suddenly sweetly sick.

She closed the bathroom door behind her as Edward walked past, carrying some bags of ice up from the cellar. She took his sleeve on impulse, feeling bold.

"I need to talk to you," she whispered, her nerves skittering through her.

"I need to tell you something, in private."

He arched away from her as she tugged on his lapel. She looked down at the dripping bags of ice between them. "Meet me upstairs?"

He nodded, his face completely blank, but said nothing.

She went upstairs, the champagne suddenly hitting her bloodstream, making her feel light as air. She concentrated on her feet, and watched her beautiful shoes climb each stair. One step closer.

She didn't know exactly what she wanted to do, but she was glad she had nice underwear on.

She mentally gasped at the thought, telling herself that nothing was decided, that she could change her mind at any moment.  
But she knew the moment Edward realised what she was considering, the zip on her dress would be sliding down.

She felt ashamed of herself as she realised that it was possibly the prospect of a separation that was making her act.  
Though, she reminded herself, that decision wasn't entirely made either. Her thoughts were fluttering. She would have to put it out of her mind, otherwise he would get upset.

Her body was assuring her that the decision was made. She felt herself growing hot, sensitive.

It was amazing how free she felt, she mused giddily. She should stop fighting him, fighting this pull. To give her body what it had been craving for so long. Maybe Alice was right; maybe he loved her enough that it could work. Maybe he just needed to be shown that he loved her, and how much.

Fate and destiny layered in her bones as she looked down from the top of the stairs, saw Esme and Carlisle steal a quick kiss before parting to check on the kitchen and their guests. The warmth and energy of the house seemed to steam upwards, making her flush.

Her blood throbbed thick in her veins. She walked to the end of the hallway, and sat on the end of Edward's bed.

After about ten minutes of agonised waiting, Bella emerged.

"Edward?" she called.

She felt foolish as she realised he had probably been waiting in her room. She ran her finger down the wall as she approached the white door.

She paused, and could hear noises from within. With a sick kind of slow motion, she touched the door handle and for once it opened without creaking. The door slid open like a theatre curtain.

Edward was kneeling over Alice, thrusting into her. Her dress was pushed up her thighs, and his tuxedo pants were undone. Alice was laughing softly up at him, her hands grasping his shoulders.

Bella could do nothing but stand and stare, her hand clutching at her throat. Nausea roiled and she thought she would throw up.

Both Edward and Alice turned their heads at the same moment, like mirror images of each other.

Alice looked stricken. Edward did not look remotely surprised to see Bella. He pushed himself away from Alice, turning to do up his pants. He rubbed at the back of his neck.

A sob broke free from Bella's throat. She slowly stepped out of her high heels, and ran barefoot down the stairs.

"Bella?" Esme called as she lurched past, out onto the stone steps, across the gravel drive, every step biting and crippling.

The air was cold and cut her flesh to pieces, but she was glad of it. She ran across the fields. It was a clear, full moon. She could hear Edward in pursuit, his harsh breathing. She slipped on the frosted grass, landed on her hip, ruining her dress. She staggered to her feet, her breath rattling in her lungs.

She ran like she was running from the hounds of hell.

She ran until she burned where once she was ice, and could not feel anything; the bruising on her side, the numbing cold, the broken heart.

She could hear his steady footfalls growing closer and closer. He was panting her name with each exhalation.

She ran up the stairs to her house and into the kitchen. Charlie was standing there in dress slacks and a button up white shirt. There was a bottle of wine on table. He had been planning to come to the party after all.

Charlie gaped at her in complete horror. Bella grabbed his shirt, ruining it, covering it with dirt and mud.

"Edward's following me. Don't let him in! Please. Just make him leave," she begged. He took her icy shoulders and demanded to know what had happened, asked if he had hurt her.

No- yes- no- she stammered. Her feet were in agony; cut from rocks and so cold that the warmth of the room was lancing them with pins.

"I'll deal with him. Go upstairs and shower." Charlie's face was grey.

He picked up his service revolver and stood on the front porch.

Bella stood numbly under the spray of hot water, watching the mud swirl away down the drain. The cuts on her feet stung so much her moan echoed off the tiles.

She washed away the lovely curls, rubbed off the lipstick, let the perfume run off her skin. She washed away that momentary, foolish decision. She made her eyes stare and would not let herself cry. The thought of her father downstairs, taking care of things, was too much. One acid tear leaked out.

She came downstairs, her ruined feet tender. Charlie sat impassively in his armchair.

"He's gone," he commented curtly, observing her limping. "Disinfect those cuts."

"Please, I want to go away." She said softly, looking at the floor. "I have to get away from this."

He nodded, and they existed together in the room for several minutes of awkward silence, until it was obvious he would say no more, and she crept back up the stairs.

She just wanted to vanish.

She wanted it to be as if she had never existed.

As she huddled in bed, she finally cried.

This was what she got for making rash decisions. This was what she got for trusting, for believing that a dress and some lipstick could make all the difference. With every sob, the layer around her heart tightened.

She couldn't get warm and the cuts were so deep.

"I left the next day at lunchtime. Charlie drove me to Seattle, and I went and stayed with my grandparents for a week before my flight out of the States. You didn't try to contact me. I didn't hear from you for five months." Bella said, aloud, exhausted.

She slipped her hand from his. The wind whipped at her hair. The storm was getting closer.

His eyes were still hidden behind his glasses.

He said nothing, and the feeling of embarrassed hopelessness clogged her throat. She had just told him everything, and he didn't say a word.

"I ended up going to South Africa first. I drafted press releases for Medecins Sans Frontieres."

Still, nothing.

Bella hated being stranded on this beach with him, with her worst day laid at his feet.

He walked, kicking away stones that crowded his boot, making her flinch.

The Hole in the Wall loomed up ahead, surprisingly close.

"Can I tell you my version of that night?" He asked suddenly, pushing his sunglasses onto the top of his head. He swung her around to face him.

"Is there any point?" She asked, and he looked at her with real disappointment.

"Bella, I am an asshole, but you cannot deny me this: I listened to you. Would you extend me the same courtesy?"

She opened her mouth, could not find the words, and he just looked at her for the longest time. He then turned and continued walking.

Fury knocked her down from behind, stamping up her spine, and the control on her patience snapped. She was tired of making allowances for him, for his behaviour, for handling him like a difficult child. He had effectively just dismissed her, and as she strode after him, the uneven sand and stones gave her a slight wobble, enraging her further.

She caught up with him and grabbed his wrist, dragging him around to face her.

He pulled his hand back as her anger sliced at him, but she held him so tight, he could not extricate himself.

Bella stared up into his eyes, her own narrowed and pitiless. And remembered.

She remembered flinching away from the touch of a male colleague as he accidentally brushed the back of her palm, the look of horror on the man's face, evidently wondering what had been done to her. Not being able to explain herself.

The panic attack she had half an hour before Michael was due to pick her up for their first date. The feeling of the bathroom floor's tiles beneath her cheek as her heart pounded until she thought it would implode. The adrenalin boosting and poisoning her blood, blurring her eyes and weighting her down. The weak sickness that pervaded afterwards, robbing her of her appetite, the ability to smile and be normal as she sat across from Michael in the restaurant. The constant reflex to look over her shoulder.

Edward pulled back his hand harder now, stepping back, blinking hard, but she stepped forward and dug her nails into the back of his hand. She grabbed a hold of his belt, the leather warm beneath her hand, and held him still with all of her strength.

His face was pinched, and she continued slapping him with the images, faster now, all out of chronological order. The cuts on her feet. Standing on the sidelines, always avoided and alone, the feeling of always being watched. The snide whispering behind her as she passed in the halls.

No privacy. No secrets. The locked door. Charlie's look as she stood at the foot of the stairs, asking to leave. The sheer terror of arriving in a foreign country, so alone, feeling like the last remaining human being on Earth. The strangeness of being able to meet the eyes of other people; people who didn't know who she was, who Edward was, his gift and her unrelenting weakness.

Sleeping in silence for the first time in years.

The first female friend she made when starting at the newspaper in Portland; their regular ten o'clock coffee and cookie ritual.

Feeling anonymous, faceless in the city, cut adrift, hating it, loving it.

Being fifteen years old, watching an old black and white movie at the Cullens, watching a squirming heroine tied to the tracks as a train predictably loomed closer, billowing white smoke. Looking over at Edward and thinking, with a sick, strange fascination, that this dramatisation was exactly what her life was like. But the only person who could rescue her was the one that bound her.

The night she slept with Michael for the first time, after eight months of his persistence and patience, the feel of the cotton sheet beneath her cheek afterwards as he ran his hand up her arm, her secrets safe.

Edward reared back in horror, his breath caught in his throat and his belt cutting into her fingers.  
She released him. They both stood, breathing heavily, staring at each other.

Bella would think later, that the strangest thing was this.

She had rehearsed this exposition of the New Years Eve fiasco more than any other fantasy when cocooned in her bed. She had dreamed of hurting him, knocking the breath from him, exerting cruelty and power over him.

It had gone exactly as she had always dreamed it would. Even better, in fact. She had told her story, finally gotten him to listen to the events that had been the catalyst for the severing the ties that bound them. She had made him understand the pain he had caused, she was sure of it.  
She had seen the look in his eyes as she finally released him, had seen him flex his fingers in pain as he staggered back.

But she watched him walk away from her, his camera swinging useless from his hand, she felt no victory at all.

As she studied his hunched shoulders, she imagined she had almost felt his deep shock and grief through the palm of his hand.

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**A/N: Reviewers get to hold Edward by the belt. **


	11. Chapter 10: The Hole in the Wall

**A/N: I do not own Twilight, or any of its characters, it all belongs to Stephenie Meyer!**

**A**** link to a pic of The Hole in the Wall can be found on my profile. **

**Thank you bookbag. You are wonderful. Kisses to Carrie3101 for getting me through the week. **

* * *

**Chapter Ten: The Hole in the Wall**

The Hole in the Wall.

How fucking appropriate, Edward thought abstractly as he dropped his bag of gear down on the rocks, beneath the arch and turned to look back for Bella.

He knelt down, his eyes never leaving her. His stomach was nauseous, and he buried his stinging fingers in the cold sand. He squinted one eye out of habit.

She was standing, on the tightrope line where the ocean chewed at the sand; just out of reach of its grasping wet fingers. The wind was sucking her towards the tide, which threw itself again and again towards her, slithering just short each time, redoubling its efforts yet always failing. She stood up on her tiptoes as a wave shouldered its way through to her. She looked slight, fragile. Should the Earth tilt on its axis, she would fall, forty fathoms deep.

Bella turned and looked to Edward. He was kneeling under the stone arch, backlit by sky and surf and distant rocks. In that instant, it was like a painting. The sky was a taut canvas, smeared thick and heavy with oils. Lead, chrome, charcoal. A stone cathedral surrounding him, formed by the relentless persistence of the water. He was a hard, black mark, laid down by a sharp brushstroke.

The air was seething, and Bella was too. She laid her hands on her ribs, slowing her breaths, fighting to control herself as the anger abated. Since returning to this place, she had lost control of herself more times than she had in the entirety of the previous year. She was definitely reverting back to her former self, she thought, familiar levels of panic and nerves shoring up inside her, twisting her stomach.

She hated being on this beach. She felt like she was standing at the edge of the world. There was too much pain in this day.

Flecks of water pricked at her cheekbones. Initially, it felt like the salt spray, but suddenly the sky cracked open. The wet sand attempted to slow her as she began to hurry towards shelter. Rain fell heavily, long needles of cold water stabbing through her hair, her clothes, running down her neck and down her spine. Her breath was erratic, dragging icy cutting air into her lungs. By the time she reached the arch, she was breathless and drenched. She looked as if she had just fought her way out of the sea.

She stood over him, dripping, watching the wet droplets trickle down his skin.

She hoped she soaked him. Froze him. She let the rain sluice off her hair, onto his face. He didn't move, but his tongue dipped out to lick at the water that ran down the side of his eye, past the corner of his mouth. Her hand itched to slap him.

The rain was sheeting down now, and a strange wind whistled through the arch like they were caught in the tunnel between two worlds. The air was salt and vapours. She stripped off her wet jacket and threw it down onto a rock.

Wordlessly, he got to his feet, and shrugged out of his leather jacket.

She felt her heart swell painfully.

Her only defence against his magnetic pull was to turn to stone as he wrapped it around her, not allowing herself to register the sumptuous warmth. She felt his hands gently twisting her hair into a rope, holding it at the base of her nape and squeezing some of the rain from it. He pulled up the bottom of his t shirt to blot the water from her cheeks, and he was surprised to feel it was hot salt that soaked through to his fingers. She shoved him away abruptly and he pressed the wet cloth against his stomach again.

She backed slowly to sit on her jacket, and stared out at the beach. She was doomed to be trapped here with Edward, until this downpour stopped. She cursed the weather viciously.

Edward was rummaging in his bag. To her surprise, he handed her a bottle of water. She had never known Edward to be prepared before. Perhaps the military had rubbed off on him.

She took it, still avoiding his eyes, and drank deeply.

All she could smell and taste was water.

He dug deeper in the bag, and produced a paper bag that was reasonably intact. He handed it to her and went to stand at the mouth of the archway, his back to her, his t shirt soaked from the spray. She could see steam coming off his shoulders.

She peered inside; to her surprise it was jumbled full of different things.

Cookies, a sandwich, a jewel red apple, chocolate hearts glinting in foil. It looked like a kindergartener's lunch bag.

"Did you make me lunch?" she asked flatly, her eyes narrowed and cynical.

He turned his head slightly, squinting. "Yeah. Some lunch date, I know." He rubbed his neck and heaved a sigh, looking at his leather motorbike boots caked in sand.

"Are you having any?" she said, waggling the bag at him, and he shook his head.

He moved back across to her and lowered himself down smoothly cross legged opposite her. He took an army canteen out of his bag and took a mouthful. She wasn't sure what it was, but she noted his grimace with disapproval.

He stared at her unblinkingly as she slowly ate the sandwich.

It was the same stare she had remembered from across the room on New Years Eve. She shivered in her wet clothes.

As if sensing her train of thought, he spoke. His voice was soft and she could barely hear him over the rain.

"I'm going to tell you now what was happening with me that day. I don't expect you to care at this point. But I'll tell you anyway." He spread his hands over his knees and she noticed his knuckles were white, perhaps from cold, or strain.

"I can't show you, the way you can for me." His arcane jade eyes were odd in the half-light. "I have to ask you to listen to me."

She sighed and put her face in her hands. She really didn't want to hear this story. It would mean fresh hurts, she was sure of it. Nothing he could say would smooth the old puckered wound on her heart.

It was unfair, how he could pick and choose his words, when her thoughts were always stripped bare to him. But then she remembered Angela saying it might be best to clear the air between them.

Bella repeated the same words he had teased her with the previous night by the fire.

"No editing."

He laughed without humour. "We're a bit beyond that, aren't we?"

"And I don't want to hear excuses, either," she warned him, tucking her hands between her knees. "Everything you've done has been your choice."

The beautiful timbre of his voice made her close her eyes, and the sky rumbled in gleeful satisfaction.

"I remember the same sorts of things you do. Not all the same details, but I remember how I felt that day. Hearing your memories has triggered mine, too. I feel like that day was yesterday, but also a million years ago." He began to scratch at his inner arm, clearly uncomfortable. He was unaccustomed to using words like _feel_. The word tasted strange on his tongue.

"You're right; I was going fucking insane being locked in that house. It was the first time that they'd grounded me that had actually worked.

Not because I couldn't think of a way out. The door wasn't physically locked. I was just so tired, I just let them keep me in."

Bella's eyes popped open and she interrupted, her voice harsh.

"YOU were tired? Why on earth would you have been tired? How do you think I felt?"

His face gave little away.

"You know why. I had started getting worse… with you. You were right; it was partly the fact that I couldn't get you to… surrender. It wasn't just sex, though fuck, I was so horny that I felt like licking your bedroom door every night.

It was just this need to have you accept this. What we have." His gaze caught, held, hers.

Her stomach quivered as she saw the ancient glint in his eyes. As the intention of his words shadowed over her.

"I don't like your choice of the word 'surrender'." She shook her head at him.

He leaned back on his hands, and his t shirt rode up. She noticed the edge of something on his side; a raised, silvery stripe. A scar.

He noticed her attention, and covered it briskly.

"I was fighting against myself, I can see that now." He bit his lip as he considered his words.

"I was trying to win you, but also fighting against the connection myself."

"Do you mean how you slept with everything that moved, whilst supposedly pining for me and licking my bedroom door?" She leveled him with her stare, pleased at how forceful her voice sounded.

"I never said I pined," he returned crisply, irritated. "Are you going to listen to me? Do you want to hear me out?"

"By all means, continue," Bella said sarcastically, motioning to the downpour. "I'm not going anywhere. Since when were you so self aware, anyway? Why the sudden clarity?"

"I've had years to think this over, and I'd like to think I have a bit more clarity than I did back then."

He sat upright and turned his arm over, baring the sensitive skin of his inner arm to her. Her eyes followed the vein downwards, the clench and release of his bicep as he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together as he formulated his response.

Finally, he sat still.

"I've had a few years of living between then and now. We all have our different forms of therapy. Mine just happened to be in Somali civil war with a camera, instead of…" He trailed off and gestured vaguely.

"On a therapist's couch? Is that what you were going to say? Fuck you."

Her voice was shaky, and she was irritated with herself. She looked away, grimly ordering her eyes not to fill.

"No, that's not what I mean. I just mean, we have different ways of working things out. We're opposites. You go the intellectual route. I go the physical."

He tugged his t shirt down as it inched up again.

His eyes lit in wicked remembrance.

"So. The reasons I was home, roaming around like a lunatic. You're right, I did knock out that guy's tooth. The way I remember it, we were all in gym; the girl's team across the other side of the track.

You were wearing the hideous gym uniform- remember, the bright yellow Spartans t shirt, and the grey skirt, but somehow you were making it look good. Your hair was twisted up on top of your head, and you turned around as if you knew I was looking at you. You waved at me and did your little crinkle smile."

"I don't crinkle," Bella said.

"Sure you do. Your nose crinkles," Edward argued. "Quit fucking interrupting. I didn't interrupt you."

She exaggeratedly crinkled her nose at him.

"Anyway, a guy- I can't even remember his name now- stopped behind me, and made some disgusting comment – I doubt you need the details.

I nearly had a brain hemorrhage."

Edward was growing agitated at the memory. He began scratching at his arm again.

"I couldn't believe that he would have the nerve to say anything like that within a mile radius of me, or a hundred mile radius of you. I'd made it pretty fucking clear to the other fuckers in our year. You were fucking off limits.

Look, you probably already know this. I spread the word that we were sleeping together, that anyone who tried anything with you was as good as dead."

Bella shook her head. "I am Jack's complete lack of surprise."

Edward's mouth curled in amusement.

"So I turned around, and he just smiled, and said, "Am I right?" like he was trying to make fucking friends with me. But he was just testing me. I tested people all the time; I recognized it when I saw it. I dared him to repeat it. There were guys gathering around us by that point.

"It's so obvious you haven't tapped that yet," he said. "You're fucking desperate for it, and you can't get it."

I told him to get fucked. I was so angry my blood was like battery acid.

I could feel the vibe coming off the other guys. They all hated me, I'd always known it. I was on a warning from the Principal, actually, and really should have just left it alone.

I looked to find you, and you had come across the playing field, and you were just standing there, like thirty yards away. Just standing there, alone, looking at me with these huge eyes. Remember? I told you to leave. I didn't want you to see me talk my way out of this.

But I saw the look in your eye as you turned, and it lit my fuse.

As you walked away, I just put my fist through his mouth. It was as easy as breaking a window."

Bella shook her head. "No, I don't remember most of that." Even as she said the words, he knew she was lying.

The memory was behind her eyes.

Edward, standing alone nonchalantly, against a group of fifteen. The strange, sick indescribable thrill in her stomach as she walked away, hearing the chaos erupt behind her. Walking, her eyes trained on the roofline of the building, not looking back.

"Esme and Carlisle lectured me for nearly an hour that night. Dad had sent you home. They told me the usual; it had to stop, I couldn't keep on doing this, if I did this when I was an adult I'd go to jail for assault. Nothing I didn't know. You were in your room with the fucking door locked when I went past in the hall.

So anyway, I just lay there in my room while you were at school the next day. When I couldn't get comfortable, I went and lay in your bed. Creepy, right? I guess. I was so tired, but I couldn't be still. I guess I did walk around the house for most of the day.

I was coming down the stairs that night for the fiftieth fucking time. I was walking past Carlisle's study, when I heard him say your name. I stood against the wall and eavesdropped.

He and Esme were discussing whether you'd take up this offer, something about going overseas. I hadn't heard a word from you about this. They were talking about paying for flights.

I hadn't even heard so much as a trace of the thought from you. Were you that good at hiding from me? I couldn't be sure. Maybe they were sending you away, and not even you knew. Possibly my little incident the previous day had been the last straw. I went into the bathroom under the stairs.

I had what I think was an anxiety attack or something. It felt like what you showed me before. My heart has never pounded so hard. Never. And I've been in some fucked up situations since then, let me tell you.

I went upstairs and drank a quarter of a bottle of whiskey that I had hidden, just to calm myself down.

I had known for weeks that things were going to change, and soon. The school counselors were already making appointments with us all so that we could get our college plans in place. I hated thinking ahead. I was overwhelmed by the future.

I was barely gripping onto the present and the thought of the years lining up before me, before us……" His voice trailed off, and he drank again from the canteen.

"I couldn't handle it.

That night, I went into Carlisle's study and went through all of his drawers. I read every single fucking piece of paper in that whole room, but I couldn't find anything about you going away. I began to doubt myself, what I'd heard. Maybe they were talking about a time a few years from now? I had always just assumed that we would go to college together.

I was exhausted from being in this constant state of....vigilance. I know it was my own doing, but I just couldn't stop. It was this compulsion that took me over. I just wanted to have you. In any way I could, I needed to have you, but you were constantly resisting me. I couldn't make you see that it was the natural order of things.

You kept yourself so heavily fortified against me, and it completely twisted my mind up.

I had all of these other girls at school who were literally gagging for me, but I didn't want any of them. I slept with them, to prove to myself, and to you, that I had a choice, but they were all so… simple, and plain, compared to you.

You were so much deeper, darker, spicier." He smirked at her slightly now.

"I was always amused when I heard guys at school comment on how good girl vanilla you were.

I knew nothing would be further from the truth. When it came to lust, you were - are - my matching half. Don't bother denying it- you're going all blushy. But we both know it's the truth."

"Don't talk like that," Bella interrupted in a small voice, her cheeks indeed flaming pink. "You're disgusting."

Edward's eyes flashed in warning. His fingers tightened on his knees.

"You want to stay the victim, do you? I suppose it's more convenient for you to remember yourself as the innocent, virginal young schoolgirl, being stalked down by me."

He paused. "Are we being honest with each other here?"

She nodded, picking at the side of her shoe.

"Your view of yourself, how it was back then, pisses me off. You used to play with me too, Bella."

She gaped at him, even as the insidious dark slid into her veins.

"What in hell are you talking about?"

His voice sharpened.

"Let me speak, for fucks sake. You used to deliberately test me. Like I just said, I tested people all the time, and I recognized it when I saw it.

I could see the spark in your eyes when I got jealous. You hated it, but you loved it. You cried at the things I did, but it never stopped you the next time. It was a compulsion for you and as hard as I tried to rise above it, you always knew how to push my buttons. I was like a fucking puppet on a string.

I don't know if you did it consciously, or subconsciously. But as much as you hated it, I could feel your pulse under your skin afterwards. You lied just as well as I did after the things I did, covered things up for me, and kept sleeping down the hall from me. You didn't have to, but you did."

Bella's face burned hot. She was hearing things she didn't want to. She shook her head as she averted her eyes from his, hoping her face looked exasperated, bored.

She felt his truth in the marrow of her bones.

She had loved his jealousy.

His jealousy was the only clue he would give her.

Some of her most erotic fantasies were variations on his jealous outbursts. It burned through her blood, made her feel powerful, truly desired. It had been the only sign he would ever give her that there was anything more than careless teasing and torment beneath his glossy veneer.

"Don't put this back on me," she spluttered at him defensively, the unwanted realization sharpening her temper. "You think it's my fault that you treated me that way? You think I goaded you into being a complete tyrant? You asshole."

He shook his head hard, scowling.

"No, that's not what I'm saying at all. I accept that I was completely out of line during our teens. I'm sorry for all the things I did." He picked up a handful of sand, squeezed it, and she saw he was sincere.

"If what I'm saying is untrue, maybe then I am being unfair. But I'm telling you the truth. You know it." He threw the sand aside, challenging her.

She opened her mouth again to argue, to try to preserve herself, but he silenced her with a look.

"Let me finish this. I'm up to the hard bit. Stop interrupting me.

I lay on your bed looking like a hobo in a fucking tuxedo as the house filled up with people. Esme was pissed off with me; I was supposed to be helping. She was hell bent on me being the perfect gentleman for the evening. But I couldn't play the part.

I just felt like an animal in a trap.

I could see so clearly how linked together you and I always were. Are. We still are. You can deny it, and you can try to sever it with a diamond ring, but you know that we are." He stretched out his legs, crossed his ankles.

"Fuck me, but when I saw you in that red dress I snorted my drink. I had seen you so often in jeans and t shirts; you looked like a stranger. I loved it, that dress, all the miles of legs and arms, but at the same time I didn't like how different you looked.

You looked grown up, and I didn't want you changing so quickly, without my knowledge. I wanted to keep things how they were. You had no idea how you looked."

There was a dramatic crack of thunder overhead as his eyes blackened.

"I still think of you, from time to time, wearing that dress." His breath hummed softly in his throat as his eyes trailed over her.

"Mmm, it was just like red Christmas paper on a luscious little present. Do I rip it off, or peel it off slowly? Do I take little peeks under the edges? Do I give you a little shake, to see what noise you make?"

He raised his eyes heavenward, seemingly caught in a private reverie, and shifted slightly where he sat. He slid one knee up.

"I wonder if you want your wrapping ripped, or peeled off neatly."

Bella's mouth dropped open and she started edging back from him. He burned too bright. There were no answers for these sorts of questions.

They locked eyes, green against brown.

The answer was Morse code in her pulse.

"But anyway, I sat across the room from you all night, with a raging hard on." He flashed his white teeth in humour. Bella stared at her fingernails.

"I couldn't go and talk to you. I could smell your skin from across the room.

You were with your new friend Alice, who never gave me the time of day before. It was actually kind of a relief. But it was also irritating. Now I had two girls hanging around my house who couldn't give a damn about me."

Bella shook her head at his narcissism. He shrugged.

"You talked to a guy at one point, laughing, touching your hair, sparing me a glance every now and then to gauge my reaction. I didn't like that smile either. It was a different smile to the one you gave me. You looked free, and so happy. When you were with me, it was like you were a kidnap victim or something.

Carlisle waved me over and I left the room. The interruption was probably… timely. Who knows, maybe he had been watching us.

He sent me down to the cellar to bring up more ice, maybe his smart ass way of telling me to cool off. I stood down there for like five minutes trying to calm the fuck down. I think I actually pressed my face on that bag of ice.

You trapped me against the wall under the stairs when I came up. Your eyes were slightly blurry, because you'd been drinking. You never normally sought me out, and I was suspicious instantly.

You told me you had something you wanted to tell me. In private.

I knew straight away that you were going to tell me you were leaving. All the signs pointed to it. The evening had this awful air of occasion, celebration. I kept half wondering if Carlisle would break the big news during his traditional speech. I'd heard him say that Charlie was turning up later. That was unusual- he never came.

You tried to grab at me, but I pulled back. I didn't want to hear it yet. I needed time to prepare, to come up some sort of strategy.

So I agreed to meet you upstairs. I was feeling sick and things were spiraling out of control. I went through the kitchen with the ice. Alice was standing in there alone with a glass of champagne, eating some leftovers off a platter.

She stared back at me, but she wasn't embarrassed about being caught. Some girls would have been embarrassed, but she wasn't. She just put more pastry triangle things in her mouth, and chewed as she looked me up and down. She looked a bit weird, like she was sizing me up.

I said hey to her, and emptied the ice into the big troughs in the laundry and put another case of champagne in to chill.

I turned around, and she was in the doorway. The light was behind her and I couldn't see her face properly.

"Are you in love with Bella?" she asked me, just like that. No hello or anything. And I was suddenly fucking furious.

I told her it was none of her fucking business. She laughed at me.

I tried to brush past her, but she blocked the doorway.

"I know desperate love like that when I see it." She drank the rest of her champagne and put the glass on the ground.

Then she said, "Of course, I know what it looks like. I see it every time I look in the mirror. I know what it's like to be in love with someone who will never love you back."

Edward held up his finger at Bella's expression as the wind suddenly blasted between them.

"Don't look at me like that, Bella. She didn't mean me. She didn't give a fuck about me.

Anyway, then she said, "I want to feel your desperation." She just smiled at me like she was talking about the weather or some shit.

I had no idea what she was talking about. This was twilight zone shit. Who the fuck just tells someone they want to feel your desperation? But I looked at her.

Fuck, I thought. Her face, her eyes. She looked exactly like me.

She came towards me.

I asked her what the fuck she was on about.

"My boyfriend before I moved here. He dumped me. Said we were better off as friends. He's with someone else now, and it's agony." She looked sad and small.

"I'm sorry," I told her and I rubbed her shoulder. I guess I was trying to be nice. She grabbed my arm.

"Can't you see that you're both wasting time?" She said.

She wrapped her hands around my cuffs and dragged me down to kiss her. It wasn't good; it wasn't sexy. We were both thinking of someone else, and she had tears on her cheeks. I didn't like being with a girl who was thinking of another guy. That had never happened to me before, that's for fucking sure.

I was standing here, robotically kissing this girl literally one floor underneath where you were waiting for me. You were going to tell me you were leaving. Suddenly, I had my answer. One solution; two possible outcomes. Break your heart and drive you away, or make you jealous and somehow make you realise you were in love with me. Make you stay.

I know that makes no sense, maybe?

I couldn't let you leave me. I couldn't. I knew I would humiliate myself. I would beg you to stay. I would probably grovel on my knees, and you would finally realize your……………… anyway." Edward looked away now, suddenly painfully awkward. A word hung unsaid in the air.

"I was sick of the desperation that Alice recognized in me. That the guys at school saw.

I was so tired of being tied to you; a girl who didn't want me, would never love me like I needed. I hated how addictive your mind was to me. I just wanted to try to be normal. This was the first moment in my life that I didn't want to hear your mind.

The second time was today.

I needed some way to make a clean break. To break the connection. Otherwise, I'd be following you around the world, beating up men in every continent. I knew that I couldn't leave you alone long, but you deserved a head start.

Clearly, all my intentions were all over the place. I didn't know what I wanted. To hurt you, to drive you away, but simultaneously to make you jealous, to finally get you to feel the same kind of passion for me. I was pushing and pulling against it. Like I said, I was a walking contradiction.

"Why the fuck are you doing this?" I asked her. "Aren't you supposed to be her friend, or some shit?"

"She told me she feels nothing for you. That you're like her brother." But she had tears running down her cheeks, down her fucking neck.

I felt like she had punched me in the stomach.

"Let's test the theory." She walked away, down the hall and up the stairs, and I followed her, not sure what she was planning.

I couldn't stop thinking of the spark in your eyes when you got jealous. It must have meant that you felt something stronger than you let me see.

If you'd ever been jealous of me with other girls, you hid it pretty fucking well. Even your thoughts were virtually blank when it came to that.

I wanted a bit of that jealousy. If it took kissing your best friend to get it, then I'd do it. You think you craved my jealousy? I wanted yours a million times more. I didn't think about why she was doing this. I didn't even care that she was your so-called friend. All the more proof that I was the only friend you needed, anyway. I was saving you some time, I told myself.

I told her to wait for a moment. I snuck up to your bedroom. You weren't there. I could see the light under my bedroom door, and I knew that's where you were waiting.

It was despicable, and disgusting, but it just suited the crime so completely. We went into your bedroom.

Alice had stopped crying. I was vaguely disturbed by the situation. There was something seriously wrong with this girl. I asked her what was wrong, and she told me she had a hole in her soul.

I asked her if she was drunk; she was getting terribly maudlin on me. She just smiled, and said that if I had any sense I'd learn that alcohol would do nothing for this kind of ache.

Please, she said to me. Please, just let me pretend for a minute. It's not real, it's just pretending. I'm Bella, and you're Jasper.

That was fucked up and I was pissed off.

I felt like such a prick, because she was obviously really fucked up and fragile, and I guess I was taking advantage of her, but I leant down anyway, and kissed her again. Something must have worked, because she suddenly lifted up against me, and started kissing me properly.

The fact that she had been so indifferent to me, but could suddenly switch, reminded me of everything I'd been hoping for from you. This was how it should have been with you, Bella. All I could think about was you. And despite myself, and the sick feeling that this was wrong, the thought of you was enough to make me hard, and I pushed her down on your bed.

She wasn't wasting any time, and she handed me a condom from her dress pocket. I can't tell you if she was planning this; whether it was me, or whether she wanted anyone. It didn't matter. I didn't care. I can't give you any reasons why she did this, other than what I've told you.

I couldn't hear her. I could hear nothing but the sound of my own heart in my ears.

I….just did it. I pushed into her and she started laughing.

"At least look me in the eye," she said. "I know I'm not who you want. You're not who I want either. But you could at least look me in the eye." She tugged on my shoulders, trying to get me to respond to her.

There was suddenly some light from the hallway slid across us and it was like we were in a spotlight. I knew it was you. I knew it before I even turned my head. I knew it, because I had planned it. How ironic, that all my plotting and planning never worked for all those years, but this worked so seamlessly. But that moment, the look on your face was so raw; I wished I could go back in time.

I had made a monumental mistake, yet I had achieved what I'd set out to do. I'd fucked everything up completely. Irreversibly, probably."

He ran his hand through his hair, his expression blank.

"I pulled out of her, and turned around to sort my shit out, but by the time I looked back around, you were gone. Just your shoes there in the doorway, like you'd fucking vanished. I heard Esme call your name out downstairs. Alice started crying.

I ran down after you, shoving past some of the guests. "What did you do?" Esme shouted at me as I started to chase you.

You're right; it had been a really clear moon. I should have let you go, and maybe you wouldn't have run so fast, hurt yourself. All my intentions of being noble and giving you a head start on me, but I just couldn't stop myself. Not just yet. I needed to just make sure you got home; I wanted to… I don't know. Maybe I wanted to apologize. Maybe I wanted to hurt you more. Who the fuck knows.

I saw you fall. I could hear your breathing, and I realized you were terrified of me. I slowed up, and let you gain ground.

You were limping really badly.

I stopped and threw up under a tree; the sight of you running like an animal, it was the worst moment of my life.

By the time I got to your house, I didn't know what I wanted, what I would say to you.

I have to say, seeing your dad on the porch gave me a fucking heart attack.

I never spoke more than a few sentences to your dad in all those years.

I hated him. I hated how he could be so neglectful of you. It was like you were nothing to him. Don't get upset, Bella, I'm not trying to hurt you more. I just couldn't understand his mindset. All I wanted to do was protect you, guard you. Surely that was what a father should be doing?

I'm perverse, but I would have probably respected him a fuckload more if he had made you move back to his house. Instead, he didn't even care enough to bother. This sounds so strange, but I was pissed off that he hadn't tried hard enough to protect you from… from me. Does this make sense?

But there he is, suddenly deciding to take a parental interest in you, standing there like John fucking Wayne with his gun that had never fired a single bullet. I half wanted him to shoot me. It would have been the humane thing to do.

Look, to say we argued is an understatement. He told me exactly what he had always thought of me. He told me I was a disgusting depraved pervert, preying on his daughter. I actually laughed at that.

"Oh, so you finally care, do you?" I said. "You've just remembered you have a daughter? After turning a blind eye for years?"

He was getting really fucking furious. He actually told me to shut the fuck up.

I couldn't stop myself. I kept goading him. I was aching for a fight, or something, I don't know what. I guess I was really needing to punch, or be punched.

"Carlisle has been more of a father to her than you ever have," I told him, and went up the stairs. He didn't back down.

"Listen here, you little shit," he said. "I'm only going to say this once. And I'm not going to beat the shit out of you, because I respect your parents too much.

I am sending her away, overseas. And you are not to even think about contacting her. You're not going to know where she is, and I guarantee after whatever stunt you've pulled tonight, she isn't going to tell you. I will fucking lock you in the cells down at the police station if I have to stop you following her to the airport. You are nothing to her. You always have been. You're not good enough for her, and you know it, you little prick." He looked like he wanted to spit on me.

He told me to get the fuck off his property. I made the long walk home.

I took a bottle of champagne from the laundry, and sat on the stairs at the back of the house. I drank the whole thing. I didn't feel like champagne, but I had to at least toast myself for engineering that disaster. What a complete and utter fuck up.

Esme came out and found me. I told her I had broken your heart, and properly this time. None of the little chips and fractures. The big one. She was kinder to me than I deserved, and took the empty bottle from me. She sat next to me on the stone stair, in her cocktail dress, and she took my hand.

She told me that she knew that I was gifted, and that my life was not easy because of my nature. She told me that hurting people was unacceptable, especially someone I loved so much. She told me that you would be leaving soon.

"It's for the best," she said, and I agreed with her totally, in principle. But I was screaming inside. The thought of you, alone, in another country, surrounded by people I didn't know and didn't trust, made me throw up again.

She rubbed my back as I threw up all of the champagne into a rosemary bush, and she told me something.

She said that if you were meant for me, no matter where you were on Earth, wherever you went you would always be walking towards me. And I would be walking to you.

You know how she believes in soul mates and shit like that.

"Don't tell me where she goes," I said, though I came to regret asking that of her later.

Even the day after you left, I was desperate for you. I couldn't sleep, and when I did, it was nightmares of you, lost. I didn't eat anything for six days. Carlisle actually made me come into the hospital for an afternoon and sit with a drip in my arm while I stared at the ceiling.

They were all worried about me, but I couldn't understand why. I deserved it all.

They should have been worrying about you. I tried to imagine where you were. I imagined every foreign country I had ever seen or read about, tried to visualize you walking the streets, the reactions of people as they saw how pure and good you were, alternately imagining them being kind or cruel to you. Taking advantage of you, or helping you.

The connection still felt strong to me. You were like a ghost in my house. I slept in your bed instead of mine; I kept searching the room for pieces of you. But Esme and Carlisle had emptied your room out so thoroughly.

I searched the study again. I was like a drug addict; certain that some piece of evidence would be in there; so I could at least know which part of the atlas to be staring at.

Bella, I hated that I had hurt you, but it was the only way. I'm truly sorry for it. But it was the only way that I could give you a head start."

"But I eventually came back to the US," Bella pointed out, shaken. "I wasn't gone forever."

Edward looked at the ground and began stacking the pebbles.

"By the time you'd gotten back, I was gone," He closed his eyes. "And I was certainly not equipped to have the conversation we're having now."

"You hated me. And I kept hearing from Esme how well you were doing, how happy you were. I'd fucked things up for most of your life, so believe me when I say that I wanted you to be happy."

Bella closed her eyes and sat for a long time, trying to absorb all of this. His bizarre, tangled logic on that night actually did not surprise her. He was an exercise in contradiction. She knew him too well to be shocked.

He leaned forward. "Can you understand why I did what I did? Even though it was the most awful thing I've done to you?"

"I sort of understand, I guess. I don't agree with what you did."

She turned over his motivations in her mind, inspected them from various angles. They were nothing like what she had expected. She thought she knew him so well. She had thought he had wanted Alice. He cared about me, she thought. Too hard. And he fucked it all up.

Angela had been right. She felt like she had more perspective on it now. They had both been kids back then. Hearing his apology helped a little. Knowing he had suffered too… that gave her a guilty pleasure.

Bella sat, staring at her thumbnail.

"I think we're both going to get some closure from this," she murmured to herself aloud.

Edwards head jerked up, and his eyes went hard.

"Closure?" He growled, uncrossing his legs beneath him and pushing himself onto his knees in front of her. "Closure? What the fuck do you mean, closure?"

"So we can get past this. Move on with our lives."

"There is no moving on from this. There is no closure. This is something that can't be closed." He reached out, wrapped his hand around the chilled skin on her ankle above her sneaker.

"You've been hanging out in court rooms too long. This isn't a court case. You're not the judge, and you haven't just heard all the evidence. What happened, happened. I'm sorry for what I did. I'm sorry I hurt you."

She pulled her leg back, resisting him, but he just looked down at her, the grey light ghosting his features.

"Case closed, huh? I'm guilty. Is that how it is?"

"No- Edward, look. I need some time to think all of this through."

He let go of her abruptly and knelt in front of her, between her splayed legs.

"This is all there is." His words were definite as he tenderly traced her cheekbone, sinking his fingers into her hair.

"Tell me now…." He whispered softly under her earlobe, the heat of his breath thawing her skin.

"I've given you a lot of myself today… I just need one thing from you." He wrapped his arms around her waist, his hot sandy fingers rasping across her skin.

She shook her head automatically.

He laughed faintly. _"_Were you jealous?_"_

"Why would you care after all these years?" She made her mind smooth as cream as his stubble lightly electrified each nerve ending in turn along the side of her jaw.

"Same reasons you wanted it, maybe." His breath in her ear made her shudder and twist against him.

He cajoled her shamelessly.

"Oh, go on, tell me. What harm would it do?" He nibbled along her pulse, sucking lightly at it, savouring the tremor in her thoughts. "It's ancient history now, isn't it?"

He felt her resignation, and he abruptly removed his hand from her skin. He wanted her to share willingly, not under the duress of his mental eavesdropping.

She weighed it up. Finally, she evidently decided that it no longer mattered.

"Of course I was jealous." She spoke the words forcefully, matter of factly.

"I was so jealous every time, of every girl. I just had to numb it, or else I would have just—" She bit her lip to stop the words escaping.

He dropped his eyes to her mouth, willing her to say it. His fingers itched to touch her hand, but he stuffed his hand in his back pocket.

She caught the spark in his eye as he twisted away to stand.

"Come on. We'd better head back. Emmett's cooking a family dinner tonight." Edward began repacking his bag.

Bella realized it had stopped raining. She stood, feeling the weight of his jacket across her shoulders.

They left The Hole in the Wall, casting tentative looks sideways when they thought the other wasn't looking.

If either had looked back- which they didn't- they would have seen how their footprints made a constant symmetrical pattern; side by side, moving gradually further apart, but tracking back close again. A constant undulating magnetic pull and push.

The tide began to advance again, inch by inch, sliding up to erase all evidence of their afternoon here. It continued its primeval rhythm, softly easing away granule after granule from the unyielding rocks. One day, it would all mingle and swirl, but for now, it was enough.

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**A/N: Reviewers get a packed lunch from Edward. **


	12. Chapter 11: Things Unsaid

**A/N: I do not own Twilight or any of its characters, it all belongs to Stephenie Myer! **

**Greetings and hugs to all my lovely readers, whether you have been with me since the start or have just joined us. **

**Welcome, thank you, I adore you.**

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**Chapter 11****- Things Unsaid**

The roads were slick black vinyl, and the air that whipped through the inch of window tasted like fresh grass and wet earth. Rare late afternoon sun had broken through, and Bella was seeing the countryside in the truly vivid colours that nature had intended, not through the grey filter of clouds. As the sun went down, the sky blushed a hundred variations of peach, layered and whipped over violet.

Bella felt like she hardly needed to steer Edward's car at all. She merely rested her fingers lightly on the wheel, allowing the gravitational pull of the Cullen Dimension to guide the tyres.

She glanced over at Edward, who was folded in the passenger seat, the fingers of his left hand tucked underneath her denim clad thigh. He had fallen asleep within minutes of leaving the Rialto Beach parking lot.

She had insisted on driving. He had protested that his army canteen was full of water, but he hadn't let her smell it. She had stood her ground and leaned against the driver's side door, holding out her hand. "I'm taking you back," she insisted. He stood for a long time, his body nearly touching hers, looking over her shoulder at the dunes and forest.

As she tilted her face back to look at his face, she caught a glimpse of his expression before he handed his keys over, his fingertips barely scraping her palm. He was in unfamiliar territory, clearly torn between self preservation and this strange new honesty that hung over them now. She, at least, was used to articulating her feelings.

He slid his sunglasses down and turned away. They hadn't looked each other in the eye since their conversation had ended.

In all the time they had known each other, Edward had _never_ let her drive. The leather was warm as she slid in. She slid the stiff seat forward about a foot with some difficulty. The car was old, and it was used to Edward's substantial dimensions and Carlisle's before him. She adjusted the mirror as Edward watched impassively.

She had shed his jacket and handed it to him; he threw it on the backseat. The car was blissfully warm after the gusty beach. She had no courage to check the rear view mirror to see what her hair had transformed into, but she raked it smooth as best she could, wincing at the tangles and snarls.

They had made the long walk back in complete silence, not touching, each processing all that had transpired since they arrived. Bella had no idea what the conversation meant for them now, but the set of Edward's shoulders showed he clearly didn't want to talk. She knew there was no point in pressing him; that he always did things in his own time.

She combed and shuffled back through his words as she walked along the beach. Her stomach sent tiny nauseating butterflies rattling through her body as she thought of the depth of his teenage obsession. It was awful…..it was wonderful. She had no idea how she felt about it. It was all tangled inside her, and she needed time alone to unknot it.

A darker, metallic clang of regret echoed through her, but she could not articulate why. Did she regret his pain? Hers? Did she regret that their passion had never culminated, or that his feelings were left to wither and die like fruit on a vine?

She remembered how she had twisted under her sheets for weeks, too tired to cry, listening to the nightly thunderstorms rolling across from the Indian Ocean, advancing relentlessly on Cape Town and dropping enormous raindrops on the roof tiles, feeling ridiculously homesick for Forks, and aching for Edward.

Back then, she had presumed herself instantly forgotten by him. Now, she knew, he had suffered as much as she. Her picture of him was altering, and it filled her with uneasiness.

She could almost feel the turn of the globe under her feet as she kept pace with him and they walked abreast into the salty wind. She still could not imagine pain on his face as he thought of her.

Her picture of herself was also shaken, but she decided to think about that later.

Bella now drove back down same roads they had come, but it seemed different now. All the landmarks that she had seen along the way seemed disguised and ambiguous when seen in reverse.

At one point, she became momentarily disoriented when reaching a t-intersection; each direction looked equally right, identical tunnels of trees offering her a wet green oblivion. She had very quietly attempted to wake Edward. She whispered his name twice, with no response. As cowardly as it was, she didn't want to wake him. That would mean an awkward drive and stilted conversation.

After a minute of idling the car and deliberating, she had turned right, and was rewarded after several tense minutes with the road signs indicating Forks was ahead.

Edward lay heavy and relaxed, his head turned to her, and she could see her own reflection in his sunglasses. She could smell the warmth of the setting sun heating his cotton t shirt. The black band of his boxers peeking out from his jeans proved he spurned colour, even in his underwear choices.

A prickle of awareness made her shiver. She imagined in that split second, as she dragged her eyes from the silk above the studded belt, that he was watching her. It was incredibly unnerving, and the odd sensation made her blood throb.

His breathing was deep, and he rolled against her softly as the car rounded each bend.

His hand, wedged under her leg, was hot, and she was acutely aware of it; the press of his hard knuckles against the sensitive soft flesh. His need for contact did not surprise her and she thought nothing of it, but was grateful that her skin was shielded from him.

Each time she changed gears, however, her wrist grazed against the back of his forearm. Unluckily, the serpentine road forced her to change gears often. The skin of her wrist was tingling from rubbing over his light golden hair, his dormant muscles, sleeping sinews.

His mouth was a soft pout, as if he was about to kiss, or plead. He gusted a breath, shifting, his endless legs an uncomfortable tangle. He looked ten years younger and utterly vulnerable.

She downshifted as the car began to labour over a small rise in the road and catalogued his face, his beauty. The corners of her mouth plucked into a wistful smile. Her eyes were burnished impossibly bright by the slanting sun.

This was how she would remember him when they parted ways again; she thought sadly as she put her hand on the gearstick again and indicated to turn into the veiled Cullen drive. She braked slightly and sent the car over the edge of the drive, feeling her stomach drop.

"Stop the car." Edward's hard voice in her ear startled her, and she instinctively jammed her foot down, the car fishtailing alarmingly to a stop. She applied the handbrake and looked in the rear view.

"What? What is it? Did I hit something?" She twisted in her seat, looking behind them, knocking the gear into neutral.

He shoved his sunglasses onto the top of his head. "What were you just thinking?" His voice was accusing.

As soon as she looked into his eyes, she could see that the shield was firmly back in place. The beautiful, liquid honesty from a few hours ago had frozen and solidified into the mask he wore every day of his life.

The shell around her heart tightened in response.

"Did I just stop for nothing?" She frowned, praying desperately she was wrong, and began to release the handbrake. The car rolled forward eagerly. They were so close to home. They could still make it without the tenuous status quo being disrupted.

He covered her hand with his, and slowly eased the handbrake up again. He kept his hand wrapped around hers.

He was backlit by sunset through the warped branches and impenetrable undergrowth of the forest, and she blinked against the splintered light.

"How long have you been awake?" Suspicion flitted across her face. He said nothing, just stared at her.

"I want to know where you think we're going." His tone made her toes curl in her shoes.

She knew exactly what he meant, but she gestured ahead.

"We'll go about another half mile, and then we'll stop when we get to the house." She was aware her joke was lame, and he wasn't smiling.

His body was so close. The engine was humming, and her seat was vibrating. It only enhanced the twin currents of panic and craving that jarred through her. The breath was sucked from her lungs as she saw the shadow of something pass across the fathomless arctic green of his eyes. The emotion was gone before she could identify it.

He looked like a predator, a saviour, a confidante, a stranger, folded and faceted within muscle and bone.  
The tiny hairs on the backs of her arms rose up, one at a time.

"We went a long way today," she managed, pressing her shoulders back against the cold, smooth window. "I'm starting to get to know you again."

He closed his eyes briefly and sighed, apparently tamping down his temper.

"You've always known me."

He scraped his bottom lip with his teeth and released her hand, running his hand up her arm in a smooth glide, smoothing the tiny goose-bumps. "You will always know me."

He tilted his head and smoothly leant in close to her.

"Don't do that," she whispered. The scent of his skin was making her mouth water. Tart, hot, salty. She was close enough to lick his neck, to taste that flavour, to feel his pulse.

She realised her breath was ragged, and then felt foolish. She knew what he was doing. He was trying to distract her.

"Don't, Edward. You're using sex to shield yourself from me. You were honest with me today. Don't go ruining it." The words were barely a whisper out of her mouth.

"Well. That's one thing I'm certain to do. I'd better walk back then." He grabbed for the handle and kicked the door open, hauling himself out. He stood for a moment with the door open, and she could see his chest rising and falling. He slammed the door shut hard enough to make her jump, and began to walk.

She put the car back into gear and stalled it.

Edward turned back towards her, shaking his head, his sunglasses back in place. He walked backwards for a moment, and then turned, kicking at the gravel, his thumbs hooked into his pockets.

Bella watched him in the rear view more than she watched the road ahead as she slowly accelerated away. As she got further along the curved road, he eventually disappeared out of sight.

Bella pulled up in the drive and sat for a second, running her finger over the jagged edges of his keys.

She felt a sick jolt when she saw Rose emerge from the front door and come walking towards her; her hands concealed within the sleeves of a sweater that was obviously Emmett's.

Bella threw herself out of the car door. "Is it Esme? What's happened?"

Rose held up her sleeved hands. "No, no, everything is fine. I was just wondering where you were."

She paused. "Where's Edward?"

Bella gestured down the drive vaguely. "He wanted to walk back. He got out at the top of the drive"

They both turned, and could make out the black figure in the distance.

Rose tucked her tongue in her cheek. "How did the 'date' go?"

She hooked her arm into Bella's and began dragging her to the front steps of the house. The sky had darkened and the house was glowing from within. Bella looked up to locate her favourite little stone gargoyle that grimaced down at her from under the eaves. She could relate.

"We all know it was a fake date. God, if that had been a real date, it would have been a disaster. But, it was just par for the course for Edward and me." Bella hoped that Rose wouldn't pursue this, but knew she had no hope.

"I must say," Rose began, her voice drawling, clearly having rehearsed this, "It's fascinating to see you two together," Her eyes sparkled in amusement as Bella ducked her face away and pretended to examine the plants near her feet.

"The chemistry between you two could melt titanium." Rose hoisted herself awkwardly onto the low stone pillar at the foot of the stairs. She briefly wondered if she was being cruel, playing with Bella like this, but rationalised that it would do Bella good to feel something for once. She had been cruising on autopilot for too long.

Rose suddenly drifted off and dreamily indulged herself as she sat on the icy stone, the sudden chill in the air pinching the tip of her nose. She would be slender and fabulous as matron of honour, wearing sky blue (perfect with her eyes) her baby on her hip tossing petals with a chubby starfish hand, making everyone laugh. Edward in a suit. (Rose lingered on this thought for a fraction longer than necessary.) Edward's face as he saw Bella walk towards him, flowers in her hands, Carlisle at her side. Her lips pursed sourly as the image morphed into Michael standing at the alter. Yuck.

"There's no use arguing that point." Bella said finally, breaking Rose's strange trance.

"What?" Rose said, wondering how long she had been staring into space.

"The chemistry. I can't deny it." Bella looked at her oddly. Pregnancy was making Rose very strange.

"Has it always been like that?" Rose asked, attempting to sound casually interested. Bella narrowed her eyes at the tone; it was patently obvious that she wanted every gory detail.

"Yes." She said simply.

Rose could have howled in frustration. She wanted details, badly.

"He watches you. I doubt you know how much." She watched the colour heighten on Bella's cheekbone as she turned away. She really did look beautiful, Rose thought, looking all wild and alive with tangled hair and sandy shoes.

"He's watched me most of my life. I can feel it. I know how much." Bella's eyes followed Edward's slowly advancing form as he travelled the blue-grey road that snaked to her feet.

"You go inside. Emmett needs some help in the kitchen. I'll wait here for Edward." Rose turned her face up to the sky.

Bella pulled off her sandy shoes and left them by the door. She walked through the house, following the aroma of cooking and the sound of blues music. She smiled at the sight of Emmett in the kitchen, dressed in a huge beige baker's apron, standing over the flour-covered bench. He was rolling out pastry gently, his face creased in concentration.

Bella tucked herself under his arm and lifted her cheek for his greeting kiss.

"So, how did your 'date' go?" he asked, squeezing her gently with his arm, still rolling. She shook her head ruefully, rounding the bench to sit on a stool. "Rose just asked me the same thing."

"Well?" He asked, not allowing her to sidestep, and dusted the rolling pin with more flour.

"It went fine. We had a huge talk, and cleared the air a bit." There was a strange note in her voice, and Emmett paused, before resuming his rhythmic action.

"What sort of things?" He kept his tone light, conversational.

"We talked about New Years Eve. What he did. Why I left. That sort of thing." She began organizing the ingredients on the counter top; putting everything in a tidy line.

"Did he apologize?" Emmett asked. Bella nodded.

"And how do you feel now?" he asked.

"I'm feeling……Like I can move on from this. I feel a bit better, now that I can understand why he did what he did. Even though what he did was cruel." She finished hurriedly, unsure of how much Emmett knew of that night.

Emmett looked down at the pastry, clearly formulating his words.

"Can I do something?" Bella asked quickly.

He pointed to a ceramic mixing jug, filled with tiny tomatoes. "You could quarter those. We're having tomato, basil and ricotta tarts as starters."

"Lovely," Bella murmured as she slid off the stool and began to wash her hands in the sink, looking out at the darkening night and tiny pinpricks of stars. She began to rinse the tomatoes.

"Anyway, we had a talk, and I think that it has been quite therapeutic to get it all out in the open, instead of being this horrible unfinished business between us. I'm feeling like I could get some closure from this. Maybe he and I could even be friends one day."

Emmett paused. "Does Edward know that you want _closure_?" He hated the word, and never used it in his counselling sessions with clients. How could a human being close off something inside them? It was not possible. Humans weren't full of trap doors and secret doorways hidden behind bookcases. The only thing possible was acceptance, forgiveness.

Bella sat and began cutting the tomatoes, her face frowning in concentration, suddenly wishing herself away, out of this room.

"Please be careful with him, Bella. He might get hurt from this. He has a hard exterior, and no one thinks of what's underneath." Emmett wanted to say more, but Bella was hunched like a school child being reprimanded.

Bella watched her knife slicing through the red flesh, not knowing what to say.

"Nothing will ever happen. I have my own life now. I have Michael. I'm engaged." She finally whispered, chagrined, feeling awful and unsure. The thought of being able to hurt Edward was frightening. "He knows that nothing is going to come of this."

"Does he? Do _you_? I saw your faces when you were on his lap this morning." Emmett began pressing the pastry into small tins, his fingers easing the pastry slowly, not letting it crack.

Bella's face burned and she laid down the knife, heaped the pieces back into the bowl.

"What were our faces?" She asked finally, torn. She wanted to know Edward's, but shied away from what her own must have been.

Emmett gestured with one floured hand, feeling sorry for her.

"Let's talk about it later. We're all dressing up for dinner tonight, so you might want to go and get ready."

After her footfalls had disappeared, Emmett rested his hip against the bench and watched through the window as Edward and Rose slowly wound their way through the kitchen garden. Edward, clearly exhausted, was dragging his feet as he walked.

Rose laid her hand on his arm and they halted. Emmett couldn't be sure, but if he knew Rose, he was fairly sure he knew what she was saying.

*o*o*o*o*o*o

"Hey," Edward said to Rose as he crunched gravel under his boots. She was perched at the foot of the stairs, swinging her legs lightly. Her huge, pregnant belly both fascinated and terrified him. He tried not to stare at it, but his eyes kept returning of their own volition.

"Why the long face?" Rose chirruped. "I heard the date went well."

Edward scowled. "Not so much."

He sat down on the step below her and rubbed his fists against his eyes, yawning. She looked down at him, his shoulder-blades sharp, the nape of his neck exposed. He looks so sad, she thought. He is the loneliest person I know. Apart from Bella.

Rose stroked the back of his head, feeling suddenly maternal towards him. They sat there together in silence for a long time. The cold was settling down onto them. She rubbed and scratched softly behind his ear, smiling as he leaned his head unconsciously into her hand.

For someone who got so many women, he was completely starved of simple affection, Rose thought. He was like a cat, leaning against her.

"Come on," she said finally. "I need to pick some basil for dinner. Come and help me." He stood and held her elbows as she slid off the pillar to her feet. They walked around the side of the house in silence. Edward's face turned up to Bella's bedroom window as they passed, like a satellite dish. The window was a black square.

"She's helping Emmett make dinner," Rose said as she hooked her arm through his. Her stomach was making her slower and clumsier than she usually was.

"Do you want to talk about what happened today?"

Edward moaned aloud crossly. "I've been talking all fucking day. A lot of good it's done me."

He climbed into the herb garden and began ripping at various leaves, rubbing them between his fingers and inhaling them, throwing them down. Rose resisted the urge to point out the correct plant.

Finally, he located basil, and broke off a large stem of the juicy dark leaves. "Things are probably fucked up beyond repair with us."  
He handed Rose the basil gallantly, as if he were offering a bouquet. She smiled up at him and took his arm.

"It ain't over til it's over," She said seriously. "Don't give up."

He looked at her sharply in surprise. "What are you saying?"

She winked at him as she began to climb the stone stairs to the patio.

"I'm saying that defeat doesn't suit you."

She paused, and looked down at him. "And denial doesn't suit Bella."

*o*o*o*o*o*o

Bella began to walk down the hallway in the only dress she had brought with her. It was heavy chocolate jersey, warm and clinging, and the cowl neck revealed modest cleavage. She had tossed it in her bag at the last minute when packing, thinking the fabric wouldn't crush. She was at the top of the stairs, one foot descending the first stair, when she heard Edward's bedroom door open. She turned.

She had thought Edward was gloriously sinful in pyjamas, apple and mint.

He had been insanely beautiful when wrapped in cotton and denim and leather, layered with salt.

But she was completely slain by the sight of him in a suit.

It was so unexpected, her grounded foot wobbled on the slender heel of her shoe and she clutched at the rail with suddenly damp fingers. If she fell over the side, and plunged to her death, at least her last thoughts would be pleasant ones, she thought abstractly, trying to regain her balance, certain she looked like a slobbering idiot.

He walked towards her, his face serious. He looked like he belonged in another time, she thought. No one like him could exist today. He is a silver screen star, bumming a cigarette from Marlon Brando. He is a gorgeous wartime pilot, captured in flickering footage sliding cockily into a Spitfire. He is trapped in the wrong era.

His hair was still ruffled and he ran his hand through it. She could see silver cufflinks glinting against his white shirt which lay open at the throat, the beautiful cloth pearly and clearly expensive. He had a tie in his hand, and as he halted in front of her he sighed deeply and wrapped it around his neck, his fingers tying a perfect knot.

Inexplicably, she wanted to call down the stairs to the others, it's a _white_ shirt! She couldn't remember the last time she had seen another colour but black on him. Suddenly, his skin seemed warmer, golder.

He smelled like…..plants….. flowers….. herbs.

She was quivering on the stair like she was on the end of a diving board.

"Where did that suit come from?" she blurted, looking up at him.

"I've got all sorts of things tucked away in my closet," He muttered sarcastically, picking at a cufflink. He smirked faintly down at her.

"I can only imagine," she managed weakly as she turned away.

He caught her hand and tugged her back up the stairs. He looked over her for a long moment, his eyes gleaming speculatively as they travelled lazily from the loose chignon gathered at the nape of her neck, the long sliver of skin beginning at her pulse and ending between her breasts, the thick fabric that simultaneously revealed and concealed. He tapped a fingertip lightly against the silver earrings that swung against her neck.

She braced for his innuendo.

"You're beautiful," he said bluntly, honestly. Her mouth dropped open and she hastily snapped it shut, mumbling vague thanks as he took her hand and led her up the second flight of stairs to the top floor of the house.

As they approached the green room, Bella's heart began to twist in her chest. Edward squeezed her hand, and then released her.

Bella was speechless as she faltered on the threshold. She could do nothing but gape as Edward went in ahead and sat on the edge of Esme's bed.

A table with five chairs was set at the foot of the bed. It was smothered in Esme's heirloom Irish linens, which hung down thick and smooth like icing on a cake. A vase of wild violets scented the air. Dozens of tiny candles dotted the otherwise dark room, their soft glow flickering and reflecting off the crystal wine glasses, the heavy decanters of ruby wine, amber scotch.

Antique candelabra stood at the centre of the table, long candles lit. Billie Holiday's haunting, cracked voice was playing from a record player set up on the floor in the corner. A low fire burned in the hearth.

Esme was sitting up, wearing a cropped velvet bedjacket and a dark scarf tied like a turban. She was holding a small posy of violets knotted together with brown string.

"Evening, my darling," Edward said to her quietly, taking both of her hands in his and pressing his lips tenderly to her brow. He rested his forehead to hers, and Esme smiled into his eyes. The look that passed between them made Bella shiver. She felt like she was intruding on something private.

She took a step back. He turned as if he had heard the shudder cross her flesh. He laid Esme's hands down as gently as if they were a baby bird cradled in his palms.

"Come in, Bella," he said to her. She ventured timidly into the room, turning a full circle as she took it all in. Everywhere she looked, the tiny tongues of flame leapt and sparkled. The curtain remained open, the dark sky an extension of the room.

Bella took off her high heels and knelt beside the bed. Exhaustion swept her and she sighed deeply and leant forward to rest her cheek lightly on the back of Esme's hand which lay on the quilt, kissing her papery skin as she did so.

"Isn't it like being inside a genie's bottle?" Esme whispered softly.

It was like being inside a dark diamond, Bella thought.

She closed her eyes and felt Esme smooth back some hair that had escaped from the pins at the back of her head.

She savoured the sensation, the gentle strokes, making her want to weep from the tenderness she felt being traced across the thick strands, and felt the love sinking into her flesh and marrow. Her throat thickened. She needed this love. Please stay, she begged desperately. Please stay. Who will anchor me now? She felt a tear slide out at the thought, dotting on the back of Esme's other hand.

She opened her eyes as the grief crested over her, realising with shock that it was Edward leaning over her, squinting with the concentration of a neurosurgeon as he attempted to wind the curls back into position.

Esme sat motionless, holding the violets, watching Edward with an unreadable faint smile.

Bella got to her feet awkwardly. "Thanks," she muttered, her hands going to her hair, backing into Emmett who walked through the door, also in a suit. He held her shoulders, steadied her. He walked her forward and pulled out a chair closest to the bed.

"Emmett, this is all so beautiful," Bella said softly as he pushed her chair in.

"Thank Edward. He's the one that engineered all of this." Emmett patted Edward on the shoulder as he heard Carlisle approaching and went to help him carry the food.

Edward looked away from Bella's expression of utter shock. He got to his feet, and moved to sit across from her, pouring a heavy measure of scotch. She stared at the antique silver cutlery. They sat in strained silence, and Bella realised that he wasn't resting his legs against her under the table like he usually did. She felt odd for thinking of it.

Carlisle came in, also dressed in a suit, holding a salad bowl. He was closely followed by Emmett who had a tray of steaming tarts. Rose brought up the rear, carrying a basket of bread. Wordlessly, Edward poured wine into each glass. Bella took hers, sipped at the burgundy liquid.

Emmett seated Rose, and they all unfolded their napkins. Bella couldn't stop looking around the room. She could not imagine Edward lighting these candles, retrieving this linen. She flashed a quick glance at him; he looked like he was in pain as he swallowed his remaining liquor. It was obviously strong stuff. His fingertips were already touching against the sides of the decanter. Emmett was watching him.

Carlisle took his place at the head of the table, opposite Esme, and began to serve. The tarts were gorgeous little things, and they all murmured compliments to Emmett. Esme looked on; a keen spectator. She had loved to cook. Rose heaped green salad on the side of each as she passed plates around.

"Tell me about your date," Esme said softly and Bella groaned internally. Everyone stopped chewing. Carlisle laid down his fork and tilted his head at Bella.

"I didn't show her a very good time, I'm afraid," Edward said before she could speak, dissecting his tart with two savage slices.  
"We walked on the beach, and it was windy. She had an awful time."

"That's not true," Bella protested. She turned to Esme. "Edward brought a picnic lunch, and we sat and talked for ages."

Esme sighed. "Well, I think that sounds lovely. Was the sea calm?"

Bella shook her head, mechanically chewing another mouthful.

"It rained while we were there. But…. It was beautiful." She inadvertently caught Edward's eye and they looked away from each other awkwardly.

He poured himself another glass and leaned back, his elbow hooked over the back of the chair, watching her under his lashes as he tilted his head to swallow. She saw his bottom lip kissing against the glass.

Esme watched the little scene at the end of her bed passively, loving how she was almost at the head of the table, albeit lower and further away.

It was like she was watching a play. The words they all spoke washed over her, and she did not have the energy to listen properly. She felt like she was underwater as the medication and the warmth of the room made her dozy. She preferred to watch what remained unsaid.

Emmett brought up the main course; home made ravioli, and Esme wondered if he had found the pasta machine in the cupboard, or whether he had rolled it out by hand. She watched Bella put the little stamp-sized squares in her mouth, and counted the fifth glass Edward drank.

He was becoming increasingly undone; the button at his throat had slid open. His fingers slid under his tie, loosening it as he slouched in his seat, making no attempt to contribute to conversation. His hair was messier with every passing minute. He had stopped avoiding Bella's eye, and was now staring at her blatantly, his finger tracing the side of his plate. Bella was pretending not to notice, but it was like someone trying to ignore a spotlight trained on them.

Rose and Carlisle were talking animatedly about an Italian movie they had both seen. Emmett was watching Edward surreptitiously, and refilled Rose's glass with mineral water. Rose talked more than she ate, and Emmett continued to prompt her to eat by tapping her plate with his knife. Rose seemed to be doing an impression, and Carlisle was laughing. Emmett interrupted and then all three were laughing.

She watched Carlisle, loving how his eyes travelled back to her, watching his eyes crinkle in the sad little smile he wore so often. She ached as she thought of how, when she was first diagnosed and he thought she was asleep, he would make little bargains with God into his pillow. Take me, he had once said, choking on tears. Don't worry, she thought now. I'll take you wherever I travel.

She looked at her sons carefully now. Each had inherited their father's limitless capacity for love. But it was as though they forged love in different ways inside themselves.

Emmett; Love like heavy steel. Straightforward, unbending, unbreakable. Forever.

Edward; Still burning in blue flames. He had been for years. Who knew what shape it would take? Something strange and beautiful, Esme thought.

Esme watched the silent conversation play out between Edward and Bella. She could see his leg under the table, sliding across to her slowly, not quite touching. Bella was pretending to listen to Rose, but her body gave her away. Everything about her was tilted towards Edward, and her hand shook as she set down her empty wine glass.

Time lapsed, and Esme opened her eyes again to see Rose cutting a cake- strawberry cheesecake? - that sat prettily on a glass stand. Edward leaned across clumsily and took a strawberry that decorated it, and said something to Bella as he bit the strawberry, making her flush.

Be a gentleman, Esme wanted to urge him, but she could not find the energy to speak. Be lovely to her. Show her who you are underneath. She managed a minute shake of her head as Edward turned to look at her, trying to warn him that he was being rough when he should be soft. His mouth twisted and he threw down his napkin.

Bella spoke to Edward under her breath now, and he defiantly took another gulp of scotch, leaning forward, putting his elbows on the table. He whispered something, raising his eyebrow at her, clearly daring her, his ankle running up the inside of her calf, making her jump and drop her cake fork with a clatter. Emmett paused, his forkful of cake hovering in mid air, and was saying something to Edward as well, clearly employing his mediation skills to salvage the situation.

Rose was watching the scene with a delighted fascination even though she tried to appear disapproving. Her eyebrows, set in a concerned line, continued to inch upwards and her lips began to twitch, before she realised and reset her face into a more sober arrangement.

Carlisle looked like he wanted to lay his head down on the table.

Esme recognized Edward's tantrum brewing, watched his knee jiggling under the table, the sparks snapping off his skin as everyone except Bella began to chastise him at once. That's not the way to handle him, Esme wanted to say to them.

Edward reached forward and took Bella's left hand, selecting her ring finger and making her mouth drop open as he wiggled it and declared something to the room. Carlisle said something sharply to him, and glanced at Emmett and Rose.

Esme was the least surprised when Edward abruptly stood up, swaying on his feet, a fine sheen of sweat on his brow. He was taking off his cufflinks and tossed them next to Bella's plate. He wrenched off his tie and threw it in the direction of the fireplace. Emmett and Carlisle were ordering him to sit, and Bella just shook her head, looking at the ceiling, clearly calling upon the saints to give her strength.

Edward was holding onto the back of Rose's chair, and then he was stalking from the room, the decanter in his hand.

The remaining four conferred for a long time, and from what she could gather between increasingly slow blinks, Esme could tell they were arguing who was going to go after him. Carlisle rose to stand, and then Emmett did too. Rose looked between them like she was watching a tennis match.

Finally, Bella got to her feet, silencing them. She slid her high heels on and slipped out of the room.

Esme smiled and slid into sleep like a hand into a dark glove. Good, she wanted to say. Leave him to Bella.

She always knows how to bring him back.

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**A/N: Reviewers get to scratch behind Curseward's ear on the stone steps.  
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	13. Chapter 12: My Thirst

**A/N: ****I do not own Twilight or any of its characters, it all belongs to Stephenie Myer!**

**As always****, special thanks go to bookbag, my beta, who polishes my words so beautifully. **

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**Chapter 12: My Thirst  
**

There was only one light on the wall behind the house. It cast an eerie gold blade across the stone patio that pierced the decanter with its very tip. All else was dark, with even the moon choosing to stay shrouded in cloud.

The decanter had once sat on Carlisle's grandfather's desk. It was heavy cut crystal, and when tapped lightly it chimed light and sweet.

In all its years, no lips had ever pressed against its rim. But tonight, under a starless sky, twenty-one year old Glenlivet scotch was disappearing, mouthful by mouthful.

If there had been more than a mere pointed shard of light and if the liquor wasn't burning inside his stomach, Edward might have noticed that his fingers were turning the same pearly white as the stone he sat on.

He did not feel it. He was glad of the dark and the cold as he sat, his legs hanging off the edge of the patio.

The fog had rolled in across the fields. It smothered the ground and swirled to his feet, obscuring the flower beds below him. He kicked at the wet air, and it melted against the fine cloth of his suit pants, leaving microscopic drops of moisture.

The ocean of air seemed to slowly undulate and roil. The house was a rocky outcrop rising from the centre.

Distant trees stooped in dejection, dark hulking shadows.

The night was silent, other than the sound of his heels kicking rhythmically against the wall, and the scrape of granite under crystal as he lifted it to his lips and the liquor slid into his mouth like liquid sun.

He could smell it before he could taste it: oak doors, pepper, citrus peel, spice and syrup.

The tangled flavours slipped onto his tongue, sticky fruit cake, and in the cold air he could taste every nuance and note.

It was excellent scotch and the perfect way to toast his idiocy, to drown the ache inside.

He heaved a sigh, noticing abstractly that he could see his breath in the cold air, the scotch's last dark faint notes of liquorice and hazelnuts on his tongue.

He set aside the decanter carefully with only a slight tremor in his wrist and sat, slumped over, staring at the French cuffs that had unravelled over his hands. His collar was wrenched open; the top button gone. He pulled at his hair and rubbed his eyes with his palms.

He had no idea if he was drunk, or whether he was completely, harshly sober.

The level of spirits left in the decanter said one thing; the simmering frustration and unwanted clarity of his repeated cycle, create and ruin, said another.

He had been fooling himself to think he could achieve anything good. The disbelief in Bella's eyes when she discovered he had set up Esme's bedroom had cut through him, had told him all he needed to know about the way things were.

He had sat across from Bella at the table, wincing at his pathetic attempts, wanting to tear the cloth from the table, bring it all onto the floor.

Esme's eyes had been blurry with medication and disappointment as she had shaken her head at him, and he knew she had seen what he tried to gloss over.

His inability to function like a normal person.

His incapacity for quiet and calm and simplicity.

His inner chaos, his slipping control.

He remembered too clearly the resigned look on their faces as he had gotten to his feet, swaying as the alcohol made him float, tearing off the trimmings of someone he would never be.

Bella sighing and looked up at the ceiling, completely dismissing him, looking bored with his childish antics.

These memories were a sickening series of vignettes, and as he twisted slightly, he could see the light from Esme's room on the second floor burning like a lighthouse beacon.

He hoped someone had snuffed those candles by now; when he thought of those little lights, and how he had lit each one with matches that burned too fast and singed his fingertips, he felt ridiculous.

He dug his nails hard into the insides of his wrists as he attempted to roll back his cuffs. He gave up trying when his frozen fingers would not work properly. He sat and stared into the darkness beneath his feet, his eyes unfocused.

He knew she was right, but he wished she wasn't.

He knew he was right, but doubted she'd accept it.

*o*o*o*o*o*o

Bella was systematically searching every room of the house, and it was taking some time. Not that she was hurrying; in fact, she moved methodically and slowly, her heart seizing every time she swung open a door, feeling relief and something else she could not place when he wasn't there.

Each time she was able to prolong the inevitable for another few seconds.

She was still reeling from the questioning look in Carlisle's eyes, and could still feel Edward's fingers squeezing her ring finger.

After Edward's outburst, she might as well put her engagement ring back on. The game, albeit brief and ineffective, was over. He had started it, and he had just ended it. She was exposed as a liar in front of the people who had raised her, and whilst she did her best to keep humiliation at bay, she knew it would be waiting for her in the morning.

Tomorrow, she would tell them the truth.

She tried Edward's room first; but the door was open, framing a dark empty shell. She put her hand on the doorframe, shaking her head with regret at how such a beautiful night had spiralled into disarray.

The spare room between their bedrooms had once been a shared study. Now, it was full of photographic prints, block-mounted, some framed, stacked against the walls ten and twenty deep. To her frustration the light bulb was blown and heavy curtains were drawn to protect them from light. The hall light behind her barely allowed her to make out the outlines.

With a shaking breath, she pushed the door to her own room open, thinking for a second she could see him lying on her bed before realising it was her imagination. He wasn't there.

She went downstairs, the sitting room was empty, the fireplace filled with cold ashes.

She now stood in the kitchen and looked out into the darkness, drinking a glass of water and deciding to give up. He was gone.

He was probably shambling across the muddied fields in his suit, indulging himself in melodramatic intoxication. Well, let him, she thought sourly.

She felt a small prick of guilt that she had added fuel to his outburst, but she swallowed the feeling.

She set her glass down and thought she was able to see the faint star of her old house's porch light in the distance across the fields.

But she blinked as the light glinted and moved, she realised with a start that she was looking at Edward sitting on the patio in the dark, tipping scotch down his throat.

She deliberated for several moments as she watched him, barely a shape in the darkness; defeat and misery etched onto his silhouette. As ever, her annoyance with him was mixed with empathy that she hated and tried to fight.

She took two musty blankets from the linen shelves in the laundry. Since Esme's illness, the regular upkeep of the house had fallen into disrepair. Carlisle was functioning only at a base level. Bella looked at the piles of linen beside the washer and decided to contact a local cleaner.

She wrapped one blanket around her shoulders, taking a deep breath as she opened the heavy wooden door; whether bracing herself for confrontation or cold, she did not know.

The cold air reached her first; slapped her in the face and ran down her spine.

She could only see his shape, bent almost double. He looked like he was sitting on the end of a pier, looking over the edge.

"Edward." She made her voice brisk as she moved to him and unfolded the blanket, dropping it over him even as the petulant voice inside told her she should let him freeze.

He looked up at her, squinting. He hadn't even registered the blanket on his shoulders.

"You'll get cold," he observed, touching one icy finger to her bare ankle. She stepped out of his reach and lowered herself down to sit a few feet away from him.

"Why did you have to do it?" She could not find enough anger in herself to do any more than whisper the words. She was not angry, because she was not surprised. She repressed a shiver as the cold effortlessly sank between the fibres of the clothes she wore.

He said nothing, leaning back on his hands, his cuffs pressing against moss and stone.

"I did exactly what you expected, didn't I?" He tilted his head and looked at her, a strange look in his eye. "I ruin everything I touch."

"But you ruined your own plan. It makes no sense. You've made me look like a liar in front of Esme and Carlisle."

He shook his head. "They'll know I put you up to it. Don't worry, they won't think any less of _you_." He paused. "Besides, ma was pretty out of it."

Bella tugged the blanket around herself tighter. "Why do you do these things?"

"You just said to me ten minutes ago that this- the way I am-" he gestured at himself, and waved at the bottle- "Was the reason you would never be with me."

His face was shadowed, but she could see the shine of his dark eyes before he scowled down at her left hand.

His voice hardened. "That at least _he_ was a gentleman. I don't know how you could dare compare him to me."

She turned to face him.

"You were being completely obnoxious. You ate virtually nothing, made no effort. You just sat there and drank and stared at me like a barbarian."

Edward's face smoothed into an unreadable blank canvas, and Bella's stomach twisted.

"Bella, everything I said was true. You _are_ only marrying that guy to take the easy way out. You want an easy life, but there's so much more for you. You know I'm right. You'll never feel for him what you feel for me."

He dropped down off the patio, surprising her that it was not as long a drop as she thought.

"And he will never be able to give you what I can."

He turned to face her, staggering back slightly, putting his hands either side of her knees on the stone to steady himself. The blanket fell into the fog.

He was crushing plants underfoot, and she could smell broken leaves and wet wool.

He lay his head abruptly in her lap, his arms around her waist. She was shocked by how cold his face was as he pressed his cheek against her knee.

"I would never be easy," he muttered, his eyes staring at something in the distance, his words smudged softly at the edges. "I wouldn't want to be easy."

"Edward, you're freezing," she said, her hand touching his ear tentatively. He was so cold his skin gave her a sting.

"Come inside. We can talk inside." She felt tremors under his skin, and she felt a spike of panic.

He shook his head. "I'm not going back there. I need to leave."

"You're upset. Calm down," she said slowly. "You're exactly where you need to be; you're home."

She realised her hands were in his hair, pressing her palms against his neck, his ear, rubbing his skin, soothing him.

He was shaking.

The last few gulps of scotch had finally breached his impressive tolerance, and the ground became unsteady. He clung onto her, a man dangling from a cliff, a swimmer exhausted on the edge of a pool.

He felt her hands in his hair, and he shook her gentle hands away, wishing she would slap him, hurt him. He deserved nothing.

He stretched up with some effort and began pulling the pins from her hair, throwing them into the dark over his shoulder, massaging the warm strands loose so that they tumbled around her face, making her look younger, the light behind her outlining her in white gold.

Beautiful, so beautiful.

"Of all my fantasies, can you guess what my number one is?" The words were out of his mouth before he realised, and he gritted his teeth as he realised how lewd the words sounded. They hadn't come out right.

He leaned forward dizzily, resting his forehead against her stomach, swaying slightly. She rested her hands on his shoulders to steady him.

"No, I don't know," she whispered. "I don't want to know."

Whatever he told her would brand her brain, and it would eat away at her to imagine him doing it with another woman. Another painful memory to sidestep.

He tilted his head up and curled one icy hand around her wrist, the faint light behind her casting shadows under his eyes, and in that moment, she saw the weight of the years upon him.

She had once thought him unmarked by the passage of time, but now she could see what it had done to him. He was exhausted, unable to cope, weighed down and completely out of his depth.

Drunk and lonely, with eyes that had somehow retained every tragic image he had ever captured.

Clumsily fighting against the image everyone held of him; unable to break free of expectations. Creating a moment of beauty, then destroying it before his heart was risked.

He cringed in pain as he listened to her thoughts without comment, and closed one eye and looked at her as though composing a portrait of her face.

"Why don't you ever want to know me?" He said in a rough voice.

"Tell me then," she said, desperate to say anything, her words softer than his ragged breathing. "What's your fantasy?"

"I'll whisper it… You can pretend tomorrow I never told you…." he slurred under his breath, tugging softly on the ends of her hair, and she leant forward instinctively to catch his words. His lips gently touched, then caught at her mouth.

Her lungs had no air, especially as she was bent over, and he gave her his breath as he parted her lips with his, achingly gentle.

The kiss he had given her the previous night in front of the fireplace had been a dark velvet experiment; remembering and falling into a vortex of want and taste and black. It had been reminiscent of their teenage lust; blazing instinct.

This was different. The kiss not so much an exploration; it was a conversation.

I'm so sorry, she could almost imagine him saying aloud in husky pleading tones as his mouth pressed and plucked slow kisses.

It wasn't erotic; it was something more; something fragile. His mouth was telling her things and piercing sadness washed through her, made her clutch at his collar.

I'm sorry I ruin everything I touch. Ruin or be ruined.

I try so hard, but I cannot do it alone. I am so tired.

I need you, and I'm going to need you even more. It will never be less.

It will always be more.

She raised her fingers to his cheekbones, wiping away the tear that she somehow knew she would find under his eye.

He kissed her, shadows and smoke, and lifted his hand to cradle her jaw, tugging her down closer, resisting the urge to slide his tongue into her mouth. She dragged in a hard-won breath and sighed into him. He drank her air, loving that it had been inside her body.

He stroked her hair, making her breath hitch in her throat. He realised she was thinking of earlier that night, when he had smoothed her hair and heard her loneliness, her plea.

Her surprise when she had realised it was him had hurt more than he could comprehend.

She hummed soothingly under her breath now as he scraped his teeth across her lip, and pressed her palm against his heart.

His hands slid to cradle her thighs as he changed the slant of the kiss, his fingers gently sliding down, curling around the backs of her knees, making her ticklish as his fingers pressed one at a time against the sensitive skin through the warm fabric. She was tilting forward, the edge of the stone cutting into the backs of her legs as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

She was feeling drunk just from the taste of the scotch that drenched his mouth.

She trembled on the edge, caught on the brink of pulling away from him. The word _Michael _flashed through her head with the sharp tang of guilt, and the chain on his control snapped.

He drew a harsh breath as he dragged her from where she teetered, into the air, cradling the backs of her knees in his palms as he pressed her lower back against the freezing granite block. The blanket spread dark and limp from her shoulders, moth's wings, black feathers.

They floated for a moment, eye to eye, shuddering breath, and she rested her elbows behind her on the ledge, trying to support her own weight but with no hope of success. She hooked one leg around his waist to stop from slipping down, her dress sliding up past her knees.

She felt herself begin to sink.

The look in his eye as he stared at her made her stomach flutter. She inwardly braced as she saw the possession and desperation in his eye.

The coin had flipped, and he was hard.

"Think of no one else but me," he warned, wrapping an arm around her waist, cushioning the small of her back as he kissed her again, this time savagely, a growl in his throat.

She felt him nipping at her mouth and she dragged her teeth across his in mindless response, making him hitch her up higher on his waist and press her harder against the wall.

Catching his juicy bottom lip between hers, she sucked it, feeling his pulse beating rapid against her palm as she ran her hands up to his throat, tugging him closer.

He was swaying beneath her as he made the kiss somehow deeper, his tongue sliding against hers in time to his body's movement, tasting of bitter chocolate and aniseed, fruit and wood.

He tasted like Christmas.

She was reeling, spinning, grateful for the bite of his belt buckle on the inside of her thigh. It was holding her in place, a counterpoint, a dart on a board, a pin on a map. Without it counterbalancing the pleasure, she would lose control.

He abandoned her lips, smiling at her soft groan of protest, and she felt the plush pressure of his mouth against her throat. She shivered in pleasure as his mouth opened, and he pressed his tongue against the pulse, sucking gently as if he was parched.

The hand under her knee had somehow slid up under her dress, and was kneading her flesh. He had her completely pinned against the wall, the ledge cutting across her shoulder blades.

They bobbed gently in place, as if immersed.

His stubble stung, and the cold wall burned, but she couldn't feel it.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, as his mouth returned to hers, she remembered what he said earlier.

_What is your fantasy?_

The kiss slowed, became hesitant, and abruptly felt like a goodbye.

He slowed his mouth until they stood motionless, mouths pressed together softly. He pulled his head back from hers with a gargantuan effort. He held her still, his body tense, his fingers aching for the feel of her skin.

"My number one fantasy…..It's you…. Instigating. You wanting me. You kissing me. That's what I want."

She narrowed one eye skeptically. She knew he was experienced; had been with a lot of women. That seemed an unlikely top fantasy.

_Not stockings and suspenders, or leather, or tying me up?_

He skimmed his cheek against hers, his breath cooling her lips.

"Nothing like that. Nothing so simple. The next kiss you want from me, you're going to have to take. Because I can't give any more." He panted roughly against her neck as the light on the wall began to slowly blur.

"Clearly I gamble when drunk." He said, wrapping his hands around her waist and lifting her back onto the edge as if she weighed nothing.

He backed away from her and made his way through the garden unsteadily to the steps, pausing as he trod on the step he had sat on so many years ago, drinking champagne to obliterate that other self-engineered disaster.

"Full circle," he said sarcastically, and Bella frowned in confusion. She watched him unsteadily traverse the distance between them, and he tried awkwardly to help as she rose to her feet.

She licked his flavour from her bottom lip, and he watched the movement greedily, but made no move as she caught his gaze, her eye lit in answering challenge.

"You won't last ten minutes without trying that again," she said in a strange voice, a siren calling from the rocks, wondering why she was goading him.

Something about the way he constantly challenged her just flicked some switch deep inside her. She had always thought she hated confrontation. With him, she fed off it.

He wrapped his arm around her waist to steady himself and they began to walk to the house. "I've lasted ten years…" he said to himself, and she swung her hair down so he could not see her face.

They walked clumsily through the cold, silent house, Edward banging his elbows and knees on everything they passed.

The stairs to the first floor proved to be quite a barrier. She pulled him up, one at a time, battling with him as he resisted, dragging her back down again. He didn't want to cooperate. At one point he sat down to rest his forehead on the railing.

"You can't sleep here," she hissed, dragging him up by his lapel. She looked up the stairs; there seemed so many left. She hooked his arm around her neck, and continued up, wondering briefly if she should wake Emmett.

"Come on," she urged. He weighed a tonne.

Suddenly, he seemed to mentally shake himself, and they covered the endless hallway to get to his bedroom in slightly better time, and with no further stops.

She turned on the light and he hissed at it, so she switched it off again.

He tripped over something, barking "shitfucks". There was the sound of fumbling and something being crushed underfoot.

She went unsteadily forward, using the edge of the bed as a guide, and turned on his lamp, jumping when she realised he was directly behind her. She turned in the small space. He looked down the front of her dress with a fascinated expression.

Her mouth went dry, and unwittingly she looked at his mouth again. She wondered if he was serious; that he would never kiss her again?

The best offer she had gotten from him, or the worst possible outcome?

He seemed to see her train of thought, and puckered his lips in a sexy smirk, his eyes amused.

She took fistfuls of his jacket and turned him, pushed him onto the bed. His mouth lifted into a sly smile, and propped himself up on his elbows. She realised with irritation that he still looked gorgeous, even when completely and utterly wasted.

He lay down heavily on his back as she untied his shoes.

"Why would you drink so much?" She said in frustration as she threw the shoes on the floor. "I don't even know how much scotch you drank."

"You talk of my drinking, but never my thirst," he quoted drunkenly.

"What is your thirst, then?" she muttered, climbing up onto the bed beside him, her stretchy dress making it difficult. "You seem very thirsty."

She eased the damp suit jacket from his shoulders, dragging it down his arms. He wasn't making it easy. He was tangling one hand into her hair, his other hand squeezing the supple curve of her waist. His fingers were still freezing; they felt like they were marking her skin.

"What?" she asked, leaning over him as he breathed hot, unintelligible things into her ear.

She briskly unbuttoned his shirt and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her down onto his cold chest. She resisted and then lay still when she realised he was too strong.

His heart was beating very slowly.

"It's you." He rocked her gently, side to side.

"Yes, of course it's me," she said with exaggerated patience, unlacing his fingers from behind her back. "It's Bella."

Christ, she thought in irritation. He was getting messy.

She sat up and dragged his legs around onto the bed, trying and failing to pull the shirt off one of his arms. It fell open, revealing to her for the first time in years his beautiful torso.

It wasn't the sleek, perfect flesh from his youth. He was now hardened and marked; the definition in his chest and stomach hinting at many years of physical exertion. Her mouth became a little dry as she dragged her reluctant eyes away from his delicious muscle and bone.

She swallowed, trying not to look at the line of hair that disappeared under his plain leather belt. Again, she tried and failed.

"No, you don't understand," he said. "I've tried it with so many others, but it's you that I hear." He had a handful of her dress in his fist, and he was rubbing the fabric between his fingers.

"You're right, I don't understand," She said, uncomprehending, and as he rolled to his side and she saw the extent of the scar she had glimpsed on the beach.

Her heart split open at the precise moment the meaning of his words slammed into her.

"You can only hear me?" Her voice shook, the sudden urgency making her tone sharp, her fingers stroking the horrific jagged slice, the puckered silver-pink that wrapped around his ribcage.

She put her hand beside his face, held his face still by pressing her thumb to his chin. His eyes were drooping closed.

"Edward, can you only hear my mind?" Frantically, she tilted his head back, trying to keep him afloat, almost crying from frustration as his eyes hazed.

"All of it…. It's you…" he managed, as he broke the mirrored surface of unconsciousness and fell forward into black.

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**A/N: **

"**They talk of my drinking but never my thirst" **_**Scottish Proverb**_

**Reviewers get lifted off the edge of the patio. **


	14. Chapter 13: The Password

**A/N: I do not own Twilight, or any of its characters, it all belongs to Stephenie Meyer!  
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**Thank you so much for all your support, votes, PMs, forum chatting, reccing and of course, the glorious reviews.**

**I couldn't do this without bookbag. See my bottom A/N for something interesting that bookbag's cooking up. **

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**Chapter Thirteen- The Password**

Time was elastic, meaningless, in this strange otherworldly space between the four golden walls. The moon was suspended unmoving outside the window, its light unable to breach the thick curtains.

There were no shadows. There was no movement.

Bella wore no watch tonight and Edward never did.

Clocks could tell Edward nothing he wanted or needed to know. He was guided purely by the light in the sky and the effect it would have on his photographs. Dawn and dusk, filtering clouds.

In the absence of any other indicators, Bella was subconsciously marking the passage of time by each shallow rise and fall of his chest, the staccato shivering that gave way to grave, heavy stillness.

She wasn't sure which was more alarming.

The pool of lamplight caught and held them in an amber resin; she perched on the edge of the mattress, he sprawled across it. The bed was encircled entirely by the inky shadows, graphite and velvet black, the outer edges so far removed from the present reality she could not even recall what was there.

Just like Esme, lying one floor above, on this endless night Bella's entire world had folded neatly down into one room.

Only a tiny square of lime green light, gleaming on the side of Edward's laptop across the room, punctuated the dark.

Bella tried not to look at it, but it glowed relentlessly, a tiny dragon's unblinking eye.

With each shiver that skated across his skin, her heart stuttered until his face smoothed and he grew still again. The sepia haze threw the planes and shadows of his face into stark relief, the weariness etched into his features.

She tentatively took his icy hand in hers. She tried to rub some warmth back into his heavy, calloused skin. She pressed it against her fevered cheek, the scent of his skin as familiar as the linen on her bed, glad of his cold.

She needed to stop burning.

She was achingly tired, but unable to contemplate sleep as her splintered thoughts consumed her and churned her stomach with nausea.

His words were on a constant loop in her mind. She tried to remember the inflections in his voice as he said the words, his intent, but with each replay she grew unsure.

_"I've tried it with so many others, but it's you that I hear."_

Was she to take that literally? Did he mean that he could only hear her mind, or that it was only her he _wanted_ to hear when touching other women? How many others, exactly?

Was she his thirst? Was she his scar?

_"All of it- it's you."_

Her heart was a caged bird, fluttering in fright. However she looked at it, his admission was beautiful and disturbing.

Either way, the strange truth was finally slipping out, whatever it was.

She prayed her heart would make it out of this eternal midnight still intact, still beating.

The air felt thin in her lungs as she rubbed his knuckles rhythmically, willing some warmth into his bones, and some kind of understanding into her own, regarding his splayed body with a sorrowful fascination.

He looked like a victim in a crime scene, without the chalk outline. The damp layers of black and white fabric split open, baring his chest, his chilled skin. His long limbs were crooked, his pale skin in sharp contrast to his strangely dark lips.

As ever, his face was tilted towards her.

He was lying on top of his blankets, and with a start she realised she should cover him. She kicked herself mentally as she tried and failed to tug them out from under him. He was too heavy.

She hurried to her bedroom, feeling idiotic for merely rubbing his hand as he lay frozen. Blinking owlishly as she flipped on the harsh white light, she began pulling the blankets from her own mattress, pausing as she saw her cell phone.

She tentatively touched a button as though it might give her an electric shock. Eleven missed calls. She turned the phone face down with a grimace. If tomorrow ever came, she thought tiredly, she would sort that out then. She was almost surprised to remember that contact with the outside world was possible.

Bella wrapped the blankets around her shoulders. They were surprisingly weighty as she trod ungracefully back down the hall, feeling feathers from the eiderdown pricking at her shoulders.

She hoisted them over him and arranged them with difficulty as best she could. There always seemed to be one hand or foot that remained exposed.

He shuddered, his hands trying clumsily to clutch at the blankets over him. She pulled them higher, calming him with a hand on his temple. He wasn't getting warmer. She heard the faint clicking of his teeth.

"Shhh," she breathed in his ear, making him stretch against her, seeking the warmth of her breath again.

It was time to get Carlisle.

She ran lightly upstairs and tapped at Carlisle and Esme's bedroom door, but there was no answer.

She dithered for what felt like an eternity, and then finally opened the door a crack. Esme lay in a pool of grey moonlight, the curtains open as always, but no Carlisle beside her.

Bella closed her eyes, rested her face on the doorframe, breathing the poignancy of the beautiful silence, until she felt she could close the door again. She did so as quietly as she could and as she descended to the first floor she heard a faint noise elsewhere in the house.

She followed the faint tinkling sounds to the kitchen, her heart in her throat.

Carlisle was washing the dishes from the dinner in almost total darkness, bent awkwardly over the low sink, his back surely aching.

"Carlisle?" Bella said softly, and he jumped, wiping his cheek on his shoulder so quickly she wondered if she imagined it.

"Bella? Everything OK?" He set down a sudsy wine glass and wiped his hands on a towel, turning. Outlined by the same pearl grey that Esme lay in upstairs, Bella felt her heart constrict as she thought of him, alone in the dark, washing the plates they had eaten from.

She didn't have to ask why he had left the light off, because she would have done the same thing.

She crossed to him and did what she never could with her real father. She wrapped her arms around him, and as they hugged for a few moments, she said the only thing she could.

"I'm sorry."

His hug reminded her of Edward as he squeezed her, and she felt selfish for allowing him to make her feel safe, small, protected. He smelled of wood fire and soap.

Carlisle pulled back slightly to squint at her face.

"You know you never need to apologise to me, sweetie." He tucked her hair behind her ears, an old gesture. "What's the matter?"

Bella gestured upstairs. "Edward sat out on the patio for a long time and he's really cold. He passed out a while ago. Could you come and check on him?"

She was glad she had her arm through Carlisle's as they walked through the dark house; past the black, gaping doorways. The house, normally a warm, breathing entity, was a silent, disapproving witness to the charade she had participated in.

She cowered closer to him, feeling impossibly spooked and childish.

Carlisle followed her into Edward's bedroom and navigated the littered carpet with practiced ease. He surveyed Edward's chalky pallor with a critical eye.

"He drank a lot, didn't he? Was there any scotch left?" Carlisle laid his hand on Edward's forehead, then his pulse. Bella instinctively fell silent as Carlisle's eyes followed the sweep of his watch's second hand. Finally, he looked up in askance, removing his fingers from Edward's neck.

Bella ducked her head, playing with the edge of the blanket as she perched awkwardly on the end of the bed.

"A couple of inches maybe." She felt dreadful for Edward. His disgrace was always somehow felt like hers.

She lifted her eyes, praying Carlisle wouldn't judge him.

"Help me roll him onto his side," Carlisle said gently, and together they gathered up Edward's limbs and rolled him to his side, the blankets slipping.

Bella covered his scarred side before Carlisle could see it.

"Edward," Carlisle said, tapping his cheek lightly. "Edward."

He blearily opened his blank eyes with a visible struggle. The green was static.

"Edward, can you touch your thumb and your little finger together?" Carlisle spoke kindly to him, like he was an ill child, and demonstrated the action.

Edward's brow creased, but he slowly touched the fingers together.

Carlisle nodded, apparently satisfied, and sat back.

Edward gusted a sigh and his eyelids slowly slid closed again, green still visible through slits for a disconcerting moment before his thick lashes pressed together entirely.

"He doesn't have hypothermia- he wouldn't be able to squeeze his fingers together if he did. His dexterity would be gone." Carlisle busied himself anchoring the blankets more firmly, tucking Edward into the feather cocoon.

"Oh my God," Bella said softly, "He could have gotten hypothermia? Really?"

"The alcohol didn't help, especially since he probably didn't feel how cold he was getting. He'll be fine, though."

He heard her exhale slowly, a breath she had been holding a long time. He nodded encouragingly at her pensive expression.

"He will, Bella. He'll start to warm up in a couple of minutes."

Bella nodded, and inched up to sit in the middle of the bed, opposite Carlisle. She stroked Edward's hair away from his face, frowning to herself.

"Bella? Was what Edward said true? Are you engaged?" Carlisle hated to ask, inwardly wincing at her whipped puppy expression.

"Yes, it's true," she said, masochistically relishing the acid guilt that flooded her. She deserved it.

"Michael asked me to marry him a few weeks ago."

"Why didn't you say something?" Carlisle began, but as his glance strayed down to his son, the answer was already on his tongue. "Edward."

Bella picked up Edward's hand again, pressing it tightly between her own as if in prayer.

"He thought it might be upsetting for Esme. He said that she wanted him and me to…" Here, she motioned between herself and Edward, not sure of how to put it, how to say it aloud, especially to Carlisle.

His expression was unreadable, and he chose his words carefully.

"If you and Edward ended up together, she'd be thrilled. But you should never feel like you need to lie. Your engagement is good news that I'm sure you wanted to share with us. I'm really happy for you."

He was sincere, but as he spoke his eyes unwittingly flickered down to Edward again.

"I'm disappointed that you allowed him to manipulate you." He made his voice soft as he chided her.

She defended Edward without thought.

"No, it wasn't like that. I would do anything to make Esme happy, especially… now. If that means pretending that I'm going to be the one to make Edward happy, then so be it."

Carlisle looked cynical. She touched his arm.

"Carlisle- really. If Esme didn't hear his comment last night, would you mind not mentioning it to her? I don't want her to think I'm a liar."

"But aren't you lying, sweetie?" Carlisle said this gently, kindly, and she swallowed a lump. She hated that he was thinking badly of her.

She tried to formulate an adequate response with no success.

Edward slowly rolled towards her.

Carlisle worried over the two of them, watching them slowly arc towards each other, like horseshoes, like magnets. He privately wasn't sure how much of a game it was for Edward, either.

"Carlisle? Would you talk to me about Esme? How exactly did you meet? How did you know she was the one for you?" Bella paused. "If you can't talk about her, it's OK."

"No, it's alright." He watched Bella get comfortable, curling up against the pillows, still slowly rubbing Edward's hand like she was soothing an animal.

"It's not a very long story. It's the simplest story of my life, actually. I was in a first year pre-med lecture. I can't even remember what the topic was. This gorgeous girl sat down next to me. I knew she was gorgeous before I even looked at her. All I could see were her hands; white, perfect, and they were folded very studiously on top of a flowered notebook. Everyone else in the class had a plain white pad, or a binder. But she had this flowered notebook." Carlisle's eyes sparkled.

"Halfway through the class, I got up enough courage to turn to look at her. She was already looking at me. Staring so intently, as if she was trying to place where she knew me from." He smiled, his mouth curling up lopsidedly, another trait Edward had received in his particular genetic jackpot.

Bella smiled too, feeling the warmth beginning to tinge Edward's fingertips.

"Esme was in a medical lecture? What on earth for? She studied industrial design."

Carlisle laughed. "She's always said that she went into the wrong lecture. I've always had my doubts, though."

Bella considered this. "I bet she saw you from afar, and did whatever she could to be sitting next to you." She poked his arm playfully. "You were gorgeous back in the day."

He feigned a hurt expression, and she added, "Still are, of course."

How like Esme, Bella mused. She would have seen her destiny, and followed it blindly, trusting fate to pull her in the right direction like a compass needle finding north.

"Well, thank you." Carlisle said, slightly embarrassed. "Anyway, I'd already told myself I wasn't going to get romantically involved with anyone in my first year. I wanted to focus on my studies. There was a lot of pressure on me; continuing the tradition of medicine within my family.

When the lecture ended, she stood up and said, 'Are we going? I'm dying for a coffee' like she had known me her whole life. She didn't even introduce herself, or ask my name.

I tried to say no. I made some lame excuse about needing to study. She just shook her head, as though I didn't know what I needed, and picked up my books and walked out of the room, leaving me no choice but to follow. And I followed her to the café, and I guess… I've been following her ever since."

His smile slipped from his face.

He didn't need to add it because it hung in the air. He had followed her now as far as he could, and soon he would be left behind.

"And when did you decide she was the one? Did it feel like fate?" Bella was suddenly ravenous for any words Carlisle could give her. She couldn't believe she hadn't tried to seek his advice earlier. He would know better than anyone what this was like.

He closed his eyes briefly. "It felt like….. I was a chess piece, being moved by something bigger than myself, bigger than my life. I had never believed I could feel that way. I was a scientific person, still am I suppose; I was used to being able to explain things. But suddenly, without actually saying a word, I was completely tied to this girl who walked from that room."

He leaned against the headboard of Edward's bed as he considered, trying to think of a way to explain it.

"It felt like I was an actor in a play, and the script I thought I was reading from had been replaced by something else." He picked up Edward's other hand, mimicking Bella's actions and rubbing it between his palms, the gesture so caring she loved Carlisle impossibly more.

He finally caught her eye. "Was it fate? For me, yes. I believe in fate now." He smiled again. "How could I not, after all these years? Esme worships fate like a God."

Bella nodded numbly and laid Edward's hand carefully on the bed, the bitter taste of truth on her tongue.

Carlisle opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly seemed to realise how this had all sounded. His eyes flickered from her, to Edward, and back.

"But, this isn't how it is for everyone, Bella." He said hastily. "It doesn't have to be that way." She avoided his gaze as he continued.

"For most people, their choice of partner is based on what they have in common, someone who makes you a better person. Michael sounds like a really fantastic guy."

Bella nodded mutely, letting a thick skein of hair partially conceal her face.

"I'm sorry I've never had the opportunity to meet him, but I know he's too busy to come to Forks. Tell me about him?" prompted Carlisle.

She wracked her brain.

"He's…. uh… He's a prosecutor, but you know that already. He works really hard at what he does. We met because I kept covering so many of his cases. He asked me to dinner, and we just continued dating from there. We moved in together last year. He likes cooking. He, um… does a bit for charity." Bella bit her lip.

She had just made him sound so lame, but she couldn't think of anything else to say.

What _could _she say? He's blond and medium height, he only seems to wear suits these days, he doesn't take weekends, he lives and breathes his work? He's obsessed with getting a promotion, and he gave me money for my birthday last year? He has conspiracy theories about organic food? He never rinses the sink after shaving? His mother is a closet alcoholic who will probably make a scene at my wedding?

She was shocked at how quickly her mind had filtered him into something negative. She tried again to think of how to describe him.

He is uncomplicated and gentlemanly, assists elderly women reach things in the supermarket, and has good table manners? He runs five miles a morning on a treadmill on a steep incline, can match his tie to his shirt in the dark because he leaves so early and doesn't want to wake me up with the light? He leaves a mug of peppermint tea on my bedside table before he leaves? He always tastes like coffee when he kisses me?

Her eyes lit as she thought of something.

"He's a real people person; he always makes people feel at ease. No matter where we go, at social functions he always makes everyone feel included and interesting. I think it's a real skill, one I wish I had, especially seeing as though I get so awkward."

"Do you go to many of these functions?" Carlisle laid Edward's hand down too, and felt his forehead again. Bella didn't miss the way he stroked across his forehead.

This was the closest that any of them had come to caressing Edward, or being able to give him affection, in so long. It was like sitting beside a sleeping tiger.

Bella nodded. "He calls it networking. He seems to know half the city. It never feels like a party, even if it's called one on the invitation."

Carlisle watched her. "And he makes you happy?"

Bella hesitated. "Define happy."

At Carlisle's confused look, she said,

"Happy at home and happy here in Forks seem to be two different ball games."

"I think happiness anywhere is…. Like there's nothing else you need. That you're complete, and you can stop searching for that elusive something." He thought of Esme upstairs, and wished he could articulate the sense of home that he had found in her.

Bella was silent so long, her face drawn and pensive, that Carlisle got to his feet, stretching his stiff legs.

"As long as you're happy, that's all Esme and I want." He looked down at her, so small and forlorn. "You should go to bed. Sleep late. You've had a pretty big day."

Carlisle slipped from the room, once again avoiding the piles of clothes that punctuated every few feet of carpet.

Bella remained curled tightly as Carlisle's words lingered. Fate, choice, happiness.

Edward's eyes were flickering lightly, consumed by dreams playing out behind his eyelids. She hoped they were good dreams. She realised he was sleeping in silence; usually he wasn't able to.

All that she knew of him was constantly being revealed and concealed, like clouds sliding in front of the moon; shadows moving across what was once illuminated.

She ran her hand down his arm as he frowned in his sleep, and she did what she would not able to when the daylight touched them, when his eyes watched her, when his skin heard her.

Maybe this would be the last time in her life, she wasn't sure. If it was, she was going to do it properly; so she would remember it, so it could sustain her one day should she need it.

In the circle of light, she cradled his jaw in her hands, feeling the sharp bite of his stubble and the heaviness of his head, the scotch and the apple mingling.

She took a deep breath and leant down, her hair tumbling around them.

She passed her lips slowly over each of his sleeping eyes, feeling his lightly fluttering lashes curving beneath her bottom lip, her heart pierced by his vulnerability.

She rested her forehead against his, her nose sliding alongside his, and for a moment they breathed the same air before slowly, tenderly, she kissed him on his perfect mouth.

Bella jolted awake from the dreamless void she had fallen into. Whether she had closed her eyes a minute ago, or hours ago, she could not tell. All she knew was that the curtains were not glowing gold.

She looked automatically at the nearby alarm clock, but it had large cracks on the black display.

It had obviously received a beating for daring to rouse Edward.

She had not moved in the minutes or hours she had slept, sitting upright against the pillows as if she had been guarding him. Her neck was stiff. She touched the back of her hand to his cheek, relieved to feel languorous heat once again behind his skin.

She sat back against the headboard, her eyes unfocused, absentmindedly sinking her fingers into his hair and combing it languidly as she tried to muster up the energy to go back to her own room. An expletive passed across the blank page of her mind as she realised her bed had no blankets.

She sat upright, wilting with fatigue, staring vacantly across the room with glassy eyes, until her vision focused and she realised she was staring at the light on Edward's laptop.

She looked at the green light, and it stared back at her. Compulsively, she looked at Edward. Still completely asleep, breathing deep and even.

With every passing minute, Edward was sobering; his beleaguered liver working overtime to purify his blood.

If he denied everything when he woke, if he couldn't or wouldn't remember, she would have lost this chance to understand. Sheer panic flashed through her.

This was her chance to try to solve the enigma of Edward, and to in turn unlock the mystery of herself.

She was off the bed and walking towards the laptop before she realised it, the discarded black cotton clothes wrapping around her ankles. She sat down and swept her fingertips lightly across the keys, pressing one and bringing the screen into glowing life. She glanced at Edward. No movement.

I shouldn't do this, she thought as she pondered the password box. This is an invasion of privacy.

He'd do it to you, if he had the chance, her inner voice countered, clearly deciding to play the role of devil's advocate. He'd do it in a heartbeat. He'd access your dental records if he could. And he's already looked through your phone. He's tried to call your fiancé, and your therapist. He has invaded your privacy your whole life.

The guilt of the hypocritical justification was acute as she traced the keys lightly, and started trying passwords hesitantly. Surely she wouldn't get in, so no harm done.

She tried their shared birthday, Esme, Carlisle, Emmett, variations of their names. And then their birthdays.

She was stumped, drumming her fingers lightly on the keys. She was failing at Hacking 101. Perhaps he had been sensible enough to choose something random. She tried to think of a family pet he might have been attached to enough to use as a password. Mercury? No, it wasn't that either.

It pricked a little to realise she knew him so little now.

Bella began typing variations of her own name with a sort of shameless self indulgence, thinking there was no harm in at least trying.

She would probably never get in, she told herself again, but she wouldn't have to spend her life wondering what would have happened if she'd tried.

bella

swan

bellaswan

bellamarieswan

Her fingers typed something before the idea even formed in her brain, and as the password screen gave way to the black desktop and his minimal icons, she breathed out slowly.

bellacullen

Holy shit, she thought as her mouth dropped open. What did that mean? Why would he use that?

Why would you think of it, the voice inside countered sneakily.

She shot another quick look at Edward. He hadn't moved. The tiny clock on the laptop showed 5:23am; dawn soon, and so little time left.

She wasn't sure what she was looking for, but she was suddenly desperate for any tiny clue she could find.

There were two folder icons on the desktop. They were labelled The Good and The Bad. She snorted sharply and covered her mouth, glancing over at Edward, amused.

It was so typical; he ruthlessly categorised much of his life this way. Black and white.

And typical of her, she tried The Bad first.

She clicked on it, wondering about it, not sure of what she would find.

As soon as she opened it, she wished she hadn't. The horror took her breath away.

It was a visual assault; an encyclopaedia of war and pain, isolation and destruction. Each filename had a serial number; he had always immaculately organized his work, if nothing else in his life.

Bella couldn't recognize the countries, only dirt, mud, sand, pristine picnic cornflower blue skies, flaming red hellish skies.

Flashes of fire. Rose red blood. White bones, torn flesh.

Women in dusty traditional robes with tear streaked faces, beseeching, hands clutching at the crumpled shell that was once their beloved husband, or son. The awkward, sickening angle of limbs.

A missile at the moment of impact, leveling a village of sandstone houses, a toddler's profile in the foreground, his astonished eyes shining from the blast, as if he were watching fireworks.

Bella dragged in a ragged breath as she scrolled down, relieved that each image was not full screen. She wouldn't be able to survive it.

The soldiers seemed weighted down by their rumpled, sandy clothing and gear, but their eyes showed the true burden they carried.

Another shot, a skewed perspective half filled with dirt and rocks, with what she instantly recognized as Edward's hand, smeared in blood. It was as though he had abstractly decided to document the moment as he pulled his hand away from his side.

One frame caught her, held her. A soldier crawling, blood trickling from his face into the gravel between his hands. The photograph was imbued with a sense of struggle, futility. This man should have been pitiful, on his hands and knees, but the fragile sense of dignity as he continued to _try,_ echoed through the shot and made her want to weep.

That he crawled forwards, regardless of his defencelessness, was breathtaking. She wanted to bear this man's burden, to ease him, to lay him down on a feather bed and wash the blood from him.

She touched her cheek and realised that there were tears on her fingers.

She closed the folder, unable to handle any more, and doubled over to wipe her cheeks on the hem of her dress, the awful images still behind her eyes. She had no idea how Edward could immerse himself in this, over and over, how he could expose himself to so much violence for such sustained periods.

The stress must be enormous. He forced himself to seek out the worst moments for humanity; and capture them. She was surprised he had the capacity to feel anything anymore. It would shut down a weaker person.

How could he do this? How did he maintain a façade of normalcy?

She calmed her breathing slowly and puzzled over The Good folder. If he had decided these photos didn't make the cut, she could only imagine what was in here. It must be the work that transcended the rest.

What she had already seen was poetic in its uncompromising mix of intimacy and distance. How raw would the contents of this folder be? It would be the most revealing photos. Pieces of him.

Perhaps the kind of work that won awards, but might keep her awake at night.

Did she want to do this?

She double clicked on the folder before she could change her mind, and swivelled in the chair to check on Edward as the view pane opened.

She stopped dead. He was sitting up against the headboard, resting his forearms on his drawn-up knees, watching her, his hard eyes green and black, malachite. The blankets pooled at his feet.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up his hand, beckoning to her authoritatively, his body tensed.

"Please, don't look at that," he said roughly. "Please. Just come here now. Don't even look back at it."

"I won't look anymore," she said, embarrassment and shame tightening her throat, automatically turning slightly to fold the laptop closed.

As she did, her uncomprehending eyes caught sight of the frames. His groan of defeat barely registered in her brain.

They were all photos of her.

She had always known he had photographed her, but she hadn't been aware that he had documented her life from the moment he had picked up a camera.

And he had kept them.

He had rarely been able to get her to pose for him. She had always dismissed him, thinking he wasn't serious. The result was a collection of candid shots, profiles and looking over her shoulder; rarely was her face captured squarely. Here was an anthology of all the times he had been teasing her with the camera, firing off shots as she laughed, or rolled her eyes, or frowned and pushed him away.

He had scanned all the old ones in, poor quality polaroids, some brownish and faded or with creased corners, probably retrieved from old shoeboxes.

Bella scrolled down slowly in disbelief, pressing her hand to her mouth to muffle her strangled gasp, her heart pounding in her ears.

Her own face was repeated hundreds of times: furious, luminous, pensive.

The ones where she was surprised by him taking the frame always had the same fragile, aching melancholy quality; her unsmiling lips parted mid breath or caught between her teeth.

Her eyes in these revealed her true feelings, before she was able to mask them. Perhaps that was why he had sought to catch her off guard so often.

She was always somehow beautiful when captured by him. He had possessed this innate skill since he was so young, to make his subjects lovely.

He had captured her in every possible angle. Sometimes Emmett was visible, his bulk a solid and unmistakable blur in the background. There was Carlisle too; in one frame, he was clearly admonishing Edward as he reached for the camera, Bella ducking away under his arm.

One particular shot of her, probably sixteen, holding a wicker basket of clothes for Esme as she pulled white sheets off the line with a dark purple thundercloud overhead was breathtaking in its composition and the way he had caught the moment. The sheets almost looked like they would begin snapping in the wind, that the long spears of grass would begin nodding.

Tears slid down her neck as she unthinkingly touched the screen, tracing her fingers over Esme's face, her rounded cheeks, her vibrant flesh. She wished for nothing more than to be transported back to this moment, so she could put down the basket and hug her, to tell her that this was captured.

The earlier photographs showed her costumed in embarrassing clothing fads and unflattering haircuts framing her unsure face. As she aged, she grew into her looks, no longer gawky, slowly transforming, the ruddiness fading from her rounded childish cheeks. Her cheeks hollowed under delicate cheekbones, her skin a magnolia bloom.

There were a lot of photos of her around this time; and the teenage Edward's lusty, voyeuristic eye scorched through the lens. She felt her cheeks burn as she scrolled quickly past the seeming endless series of curves, lips, eyelashes, waists and taut denim.

Every possible type of lighting gilded her features. The sun appeared at different points in the sky, or created bright sunspots bouncing off the lens, making her eyes tortoiseshell, more gold than brown.

The skies were made of leaves, clouds, blankets or darkness. The four seasons were backdrops to the play that was her life; blue, red, white and green.

She lay sleeping and awake, shaded in black and white or vivid colour. Hundreds of shades of grey. Occasionally, he had deliberately overexposed the film and she appeared ghost-white and ethereal.

Bella realised she was shaking as she scrolled lower, unable to handle much more of her own face. She stared at her own face, until she could no longer recognize herself.

Her eyes... again and again.... alternately glowing with love, or hate. Laughing and crying. Following him or turning away.

It was, without a doubt, the most intensely beautiful, frightening thing she had ever experienced, and as she pushed away from the desk and rose unsteadily, she had no idea of what to do next. Follow, or turn away. She stood, holding the chair for support.

"Well, there you have it," he muttered, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes.

"I don't understand" He heard her whisper. "What does this _mean_?"

He rummaged in his bedside drawer and unearthed a packet of peppermints to take the sudden bitter taste from his mouth. He rolled one against his tongue, refusing to look at her. He picked at his fingernail and tucked his knee up tighter against his chest, the headboard creaking in protest.

"It means whatever you want it to mean," he said flatly, his eyes acid green.

Defensiveness was radiating from him. He was barricading himself in, and his eyes were narrowed and cynical as he stared at his hands.

"But what does it mean to _you_? What do _I_ mean to you? Please, Edward," she begged him softly. She put her knee on the edge of the mattress, and crawled towards him, her dress hindering her. If not for the tears on her cheeks, the action might have seemed sexy.

She knelt in front of him, pressing herself against his knee, pinning him in place, shaking and gasping.

"Can't we discuss this another time?" He implored, trying to make it a reasonable sounding request, and slid his gaze away again, crunching the peppermint loudly, feigning nonchalance as he inwardly panicked.

Please, cell phone, ring, anything, save me, he thought desperately. Rose, knock on the door. Rose, go into labour. Please go into labour right now, for fucks sake. I cannot be having this conversation.

"I'm really hung over." He let out a deep sigh.

An instant of pure rage blindsided her, and she slapped her palms on the headboard either side of his face, making him flinch almost imperceptibly. She had known this truth would not come easily. Nothing about Edward came easily. She had asked, and now she would demand.

"We're talking about this now. We're not leaving the room until we understand each other." She unwittingly echoed what he had said to her earlier when they approached the beach.

"Do you remember what you told me last night?" The tremor in her arms gave her away as she continued to hold him hostage.

He smirked sarcastically and she seethed in frustration, a little coiled snake.

He gave her a knowing, infuriating look as he tilted his face to catch her narrowed eyes, more black than brown.

"Are you annoyed that I won't kiss you again?" He deliberately blew hot mint against her lips. "You could put us both out of our misery right now, you know."

He leaned his forehead against her, eavesdropping on her thoughts, his lips so close to hers. Her mind was so chaotic he had to pull back from her, unable to bear it.

Her pupils darkened dangerously at the provocation, but he could see his attempts to distract her had failed. He tried again.

"Well, I must say, it's nice to see you mad instead of crying for once," he tossed cruelly at her. "It's just a little bit sexier than the constant waterworks."

Her expression wavered, and for a split second she was unsure, confused. But she recovered and blinked hard, continuing her struggle.

"Edward, last night you said that you can only hear me." Her voice cut through him.

He looked as though she had slapped him. "What?" That wasn't what he was expecting. Frantically, he conducted a lightening fast audit of his memory of last night, coming up blank.

In fact, finding no mental records beyond the point when they got to his bedroom.

"Edward," Bella slowly, deliberately wrapping her hand around the pulse in his throat to stop him as he turned his face away.

_Can you only hear me? Can you hear what I'm asking you?  
_

He stubbornly bit his lip like a small boy.

_Tell me the truth. Tell me now. Or I swear I'll leave this house and I will marry that man.  
_

"Yes, it's true," he said in a rush, unprepared for the relief that flooded him. "I have only ever heard you."

She sagged against him, her forehead on the wooden headboard, her strength partially drained.

"Why did you never tell me?" She managed to say aloud.

"How could I possibly have told you that?" he said, his temper pricking at him with a pitchfork. "Can you imagine what the result of that would have been?"

She blinked at his tone, her mouth dropping open.

_The result? You would have been honest with me for our whole lives. There would have been no secrets. I could maybe have understood this strange thing that is between us. I could have been yours all this_—

Edward took her limp hand from his throat and pushed her back so that he could see her face.

"It wasn't that simple…" he began, capturing her wrist in his hand, absently marvelling how small she was; his fingers overlapped.

_You let me believe I was one of many, instead of the only one.  
_

"But I couldn't tell you after a while- the lie became too big…"

_You've been lying to me our whole lives.  
_

"Look at it from my perspective. I'm a freak. But only with one person; only with you. That gave you way too much-" he broke off, choking on the word.

"Too much _what?_" She said. "What is this word you can't say? What more can't you tell me? Say it. Out loud."

"Power." His voice was clipped, and she saw his fingers clench the sheets out the corner of her eye.

"Are you saying I have some sort of power over _you_? That's rich. You're the one snooping into my head whenever you feel like it." She regretted her harsh tone and choice of words as he blinked sharply.

He slid his leg down from his chest slowly along the mattress, between her knees, causing her to rise up, catching hold of his shoulders as she wobbled. He turned his palms up to her, his eyes mistrustful.

"That's what I'm saying." He might as well have his ribcage gaping open again. This was the more excruciating moment.

Edward tilted his head, looking at the face he knew better than his own and tried to decipher her eyes.

He had a collection of her every expression, but he'd never seen this one before.

Like she was..... trying to recognize him?

"So, now you know what you've got, what are you going to do with it?" He said finally, raising his hands to lift back the brown-black tangles from her damp cheeks, holding his breath as she slowly closed her eyes as he touched her, opened them and breathed deep as he dropped his hands.

A decision had been reached, that much was clear.

He prayed she was merciful.

He prayed she wouldn't force him to crawl.

* * *

**A/N: I know, I know. Evil to leave it there.  
**

**bookbag has written us a boarding school outtake, please find it in my favourites!  
**

**I'm often asked how often I update- and the answer is, as soon as I can! Each chapter gets a bit trickier to write, so it's hard to say. But be assured that I work on it every day.  
**

**Reviewers get to decide what to do with it.  
**


	15. Chapter 14: Alchemy

**A/N: ****I do not own Twilight, or any of its characters, it all belongs to Stephenie Meyer!**

**Thank you as always to bookbag, my glamourous, crop-wielding beta who whips each chapter out of me with a tireless arm. *stings***

**She wrote us such a wonderful outtake. Have you read and reviewed it yet? It's called Denying Difference, and it's in my favourite stories. **

**Thank you gutterfairy for pre reading, and for joining bookbag and I in the Realm of No Wrong. Your swipe pass and permanent residency paperwork is in the mail. **

**Thanks to everyone for waiting so patiently. **

**Some things should not be rushed, as you soon will find out. **

**

* * *

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**Chapter Fourteen: Alchemy  
**

**al·che·my** _(noun)_

**1** **:** a medieval chemical science and speculative philosophy aiming to achieve the transmutation of the base metals into gold, the discovery of a universal cure for disease, and the discovery of a means of indefinitely prolonging life  
**2** **:** a power or process of transforming something common into something special  
**3** **:** an inexplicable or mysterious transmuting

The shadows on the ground edged towards dawn, dark receding like a tide and filmy light hinting at the horizon, as two snowy grey doves perched on the stone windowsill beneath the dull golden square. Pressed together against the cold, they stared unseeing into the world that lay below, their tiny ticking hearts concealed under a negligible layer of feathers.

There was no movement or sound to pique their interest and they sat impassively, living ornaments on the mantelpiece underneath the curtains that would soon begin to glow bronze when the first strands of light broke through into the iron-grey sky.

Each was mirrored in the other's eye.

A hunched black crow watched them as it gripped the mildewed cracked stone spout on the corner of the roof. Its ruffling feathers shone blue in the first weak rays and it observed with onyx eyes and cruel, carved beak. It turned its head, coldly robotic, and released its hold to effortlessly wheel wide onto the pair, animating them at last as they scattered in opposite directions.

The crow was startled by its own jagged reflection as it reached with its claws, and it swerved sharply, its beak striking the pane, the resounding tap the only sound to break the tranquillity of the sleeping gardens and stones.

It retreated to its solitary perch to wait for the weak warm oblivion of sun. The doves clung together beneath the eaves.

On the other side of this layer of gold and glass, the sound broke Bella's eye contact, causing her eyes to flash to the window and allowing the breath Edward had been holding to leave his body in a low, controlled hiss.

He watched her brow crease and he drew in another lungful of air, tasting her scent as she turned back to him and he braced for the weight of her eyes again. She was swaying slightly, her knees either side of his thighs, her dress riding up in ways he wished he was in the mood to appreciate. She gripped his collarbone through the layers of cloth, her hand heavy, like she was pushing him down.

The sharp edges of his teeth were pressed together, and the muscles of his jaw locked. Air was too trivial; his lungs were denied the satisfaction as the silence stretched. As if suspended a thousand feet below a glassed surface of water, he felt the pressure in his bones, the weight pressing down upon his head and shoulders, and he resisted the urge to reach up to her.

And the urge was strong. The tiny pricks of light in the gem facets of her eyes, topaz, obsidian, made him want to strike upwards, reach towards the surface, anchor or be anchored. To make her see, to make her choose him. But instead he forced himself to wait to be pulled to the surface.

Or be pushed further down.

Bella slowly looked over Edward's face, his face a pained taut mask. She squinted slightly as she studied him, wondering who he really was, how someone she thought she knew was slipping further away. She didn't like it. If she didn't know Edward, then who _did_ she know? Certainly not herself.

She absently picked up his hand which lay upturned and gently curled on the bed. She frowned softly at his weathered palm, life line, heart line, fate line, all deep and running close, stamped on his skin before he was born.

Which was the fate line? She could never remember. Esme would be able to tell her which it was.  
"You carry a map," Esme had once said, her beautiful eyes sombre as she tapped Bella's palm. "It's with you all the time, so you always know which path to choose."

She squinted in the half light, resisting the urge to turn over her hand and compare hers with Edward's.

She traced along the lines until they converged beneath her fingertip. She leaned sideways to turn off the lamp; it was hurting her eyes, revealing too much. The room darkened into soft, dull pewter, and she was glad to be cloaked in the cold light.

She realised he wasn't breathing and a piercing sadness filled her, smothering her irritation with him, and she lowered her head to drop a kiss to his palm. She felt his body swell, the intake of his breath deep and desperate. She smoothed her hands over his, her fingertips tracing the tight cords of the tendons in his forearms as she lowered herself down slowly onto his lap; no longer trusting her knees to hold her.

Photographs and words ran through her veins like white ribbons, black butterflies.

He sat passively, not reaching for her, his lip caught in his teeth, a crease deepening on his brow.

She realised he was waiting for her to speak. He seemed expectant- waiting for some sort of signal, or choice? What could she possibly say to him?

She closed her eyes and shied away from the word _choice_, the fine wire of guilt twisting as the word _Michael_ blinked like a Vegas neon sign in the distance. She turned away from it to examine a forbidden shadowed path lined with a broken fence, a wall smothered in vines, a door with a rusted metal lock that hinted at ruin, or rapture.

Down this path, laid between cracked stones was another word.

_Power_.

She trod gingerly over the word in her mind, her twisted dress shielding her skin from his, and she was grateful for privacy.

She felt his body beneath her, the muscle and blunt-sharp bone and the weight of his body pressing into the mattress. She attempted to tug her dress down her thighs, noticing his gaze flicker down, her breath catching at the restraint in his eyes that warred with a spark of animal interest deep in the forest depths.

He caught her glance, and stubbornly flexed his jaw and looked away. She was surprised by her stab of irritation, and she narrowed her eyes as she considered him.

To have a key in her palm was one thing; to use it was another.

What she was not prepared for was the drop of adrenalin boosting her blood.

Poison, elixir, she leaned forward to whisper in his ear, testing the lock.

"What _am_ I going to do with it?"

His body hardened, and his eyes clouded.

"It seems I can do whatever I want with it." She rested her brow against his, an unremembered habit from their childhood, as she settled herself more comfortably on his lap. She rested her wrists on the collar of the debris that was once a shirt, gratified to feel the evidence of his increasing arousal beneath her, hating herself for doing this but unable to stop.

"I've got it all right here." Experimentally, she hovered her parted lips near his. His tongue licked his bottom lip, his mouth opening, bathing her with his sweet breath.

"Ah-ah," she chided softly. "You can't kiss me until I kiss you first." She pulled back from him just in time, before the image of kissing him while he was asleep kicked the tripwire of her memory, a smile playing at the edges of her lips as she stretched languidly.

His expression blackened dangerously but he remained obstinately still. As she leaned closer to breathe his mint and heat, she could see his hands slowly fisting on the blankets by his sides from the corner of her eye.

"Admit it," she said, allowing her hair to fall forward as she put her face into his neck, one fraction of an inch away from skin contact, "You don't control this." She pulled back. "I control this."

He scowled at her. "You're pushing your luck."

She raised her eyebrows at his flash of temper. "I'm just trying to understand what you've given me, seeing as though you won't explain to me." She paused, considering.

"I want answers."

She leaned back in his lap slightly to shake her hair back, unhooking her earrings and tossing them carelessly on his bedside table, stroking his hardness with the back of her thigh. At his growled intake of breath, her stomach flipped.

"There's one answer right there. One you can't lie about." She raised an eyebrow in amusement.

"You're being cruel to me," he said crisply. "I'm not a toy." His mouth lifted at the corner as he spoke and she realised he was using her words from the previous day against her.

"You don't like the taste of your own medicine, do you?" She returned, straightening his collar.

He smiled at her tart wordplay, teeth glinting in the dull steely light. She fought the urge to leap back as he rested his head back against the headboard.

She was playing a dangerous game. His expression was feline as he stretched against her in return.

"Let me rephrase. I'm not the kind of toy you can just throw away when you're bored." His eyes dropped to her mouth.

"I will be your favourite toy." He leaned forwards slightly, scenting her tangled hair. "I want to sleep in your bed, and be taken wherever you go."

His husky, teasing voice was doing sinful wet things to her underwear, and she steeled herself against the naughty innocence in his eyes as he whispered, "Or maybe I'd take _you_ wherever _I_ go."

He scorched his eyes over her again, appraising her ripe curves.

"I'll take you on every surface imaginable," he added as he tucked his hands into his pockets nonchalantly, the texture of his pants against his sensitised fingertips almost too much to bear.

"You threw me away whenever _you _got bored," she muttered resentfully, shying away from his words, suddenly ill equipped to play this game. She moved to climb off his lap, but he slid one hand from his pocket and laid a single fingertip on her bare knee.

"I was careless with you when we were younger." He caught her eye. "But I've learned my lesson. I'm not going to make the same mistakes again."

Her attention was caught by his damaged flesh revealed as he reached up to run his hand through his hair.  
She glared. "You're trying to distract me, anyway."

"It's working," he said confidently, noticing the press of her nipples through her dress, his mouth suddenly dry.

"You always try to distract me when I get too close to things," she pointed out, dropping one hand to the damaged skin on his side. "Edward, how did you do this?"

He sighed and closed his eyes for a long time, tired and weakened from opening himself so wide.

"IED." he finally said in a monotone. At her frown, he clarified. "Roadside bomb."

She picked up his hand again as he said those words and unthinkingly pressed it against her own ribcage. She brushed aside his jacket and shirt to trace the scar, bending to study it in the dim light, able to feel each puckered point where a thread had held him closed.

"When?" She ticked each stitch off, trying to number them but losing count as his breath ghosted her neck.

He was arcing away from her exploration, but pressing his hand more firmly against her, his heat branding her skin through her dress.

"About seven months ago. My second stint in Afghanistan." He softly pinched her, tracing the faint frame of her bones under the warm brown dress.

"I was out doing some routine shots of personnel, walking the roadside with some other guys, and it blew as one of our vehicles went past ahead of us." He was glad she was leaning forward, reaching around him to trace the scar back to almost his spine, a half embrace. He didn't want to have to make his eyes look like something else.

"It was hidden in an animal carcass," he added conversationally as she leaned more heavily against him, still ticking off each stitch. "There was rotting meat everywhere."

"You weren't unconscious?" She smoothed her finger along it, its texture oddly tickling her fingertip as she did so. She leaned back to look him in the eye, her expression solemn. He realised she was inwardly shaking as she pressed her finger against him.

"Not straight away," he managed finally, a memory fleeting in his eye, the same memory behind hers as she remembered the photograph she had seen, his hand, blood.

"And you never told Esme and Carlisle." She said it as fact, and he avoided her gaze to study the way her dress had concertinaed up her body with an absorbed expression.

"Ma was in heavy treatment. There was no need for them to know." He paused, tugged downwards on the hem, wondering if the air was too chill, but knowing the reason for her violent shiver.

He calmed her under the guise of smoothing her dress. "Someone died that day. Me getting sliced open was nothing compared to that."

Nausea trickled through her. "_You _could have died." She locked eyes with him again. "Who did they call when it happened?"

He studied the blanket beside his leg. "My agent." He said stiffly.

"Edward," she gasped, grasping his lapel and shaking him gently. "You should have called me." She leaned her temple against his again, her heart suddenly filling her body, choking her throat. Alone, always alone.

He shrugged noncommittally but his eyelashes flickered briefly against hers, tangling.

The atmosphere suddenly blistered as she pulled back slightly to stare at him, her mind reeling. The irises of his eyes seemed to suddenly layer from willow into darkest moss, and she realised that their mouths were almost touching; as he spoke she felt them brush, feather light.

"Was it agony?" She ran her hand down his jaw, down to the base of his neck.

He could have died…. She would have died.

"I've had worse," he said, his face twisting at the echo in her mind, and her stomach compressed with guilt.

He hated feeling her guilt and pity. He shook his head at her crossly and batted her hand away from his skin.

"I feel terrible that I didn't know," she confessed, and his mouth twisted sourly, a frown beginning to slide into place.

"I couldn't have known," she added, slightly defensively. "_I'm_ not a mind reader. I'm sorry I didn't know. But how could I have? Any news of you comes from Esme. Without her, I'd have nothing of you."

She instantly wished the words back as they both raised their eyes to the ceiling involuntarily, her cheeks burning, her toes curling in the excruciating silence that ensued.

"You'll always know as much as you want to know," he said cryptically, and she glanced at his mouth. "You guessed my laptop password, after all." He narrowed his eyes and she felt his fingers flex against the pulse point in her wrist.

"I wonder what that means for us," he added thoughtfully, seemingly talking to himself.

Her face was a picture of sorrow and torment as she closed her eyes, hopelessly confused, unable to ask him directly. The answers had too much power. The stakes were too high, and she had no time to rein in her chaos.

"Tell me," he whispered as he laid his cheek against hers, rocking her a little as she dropped forward onto him. "You must tell me." She felt his arms rise to wrap around her. "What are you thinking?"

The thoughts tangled and she had no hope of controlling them; her heart heavy as her mind reeled.

_All those photographs of me. The photographs of war. They are the same thing._ _ I have been walking wounded. I am so tired, so very tired, I just need some place to lay down my head…_

She inexplicably thought of a man returning from war, walking down a long dappled road, praying that things could be as perfect and gold and pure as his tired heart remembered. Cotton sheets drying on the line he passed, each footstep significant and like a mistake being put right.

Just for an instant, a world was captured, and for some reason it was her own face she saw, glowing with love for this man returning to her.

"There's no point denying this," she whispered shakily, relief and fear splicing through her. "I can see there's no choice."

"You need to choose now," he breathed as she lifted her eyes, her final decision reached. "It won't count unless you kiss me first."

As she leaned against him, her cheek rubbing against his, the brown sugar grit of his stubble sliding over the peach of her cheekbone, she thought, _I already did_.

Bella's memory of kissing him while he slept caused a flicker in the dark of his eyes.

The glint of the diamond lying on her bedside table down the hall was caught in her tear as she leaned forward, and kissed him for the second time that day.

The shock of her lips on his caused each to inhale sharply, finally bringing Edward gasping to the surface as Bella slanted her mouth over his to deepen the kiss.

The control she kept on herself disintegrated and suddenly the hot sharp fangs of lust were snapping at her heels and she was desperate, soothing and punishing him with every kiss; her tongue sliding alongside his, the sharp scrape of his teeth on her lips.

He blazed beneath her, her lust a spark, his blood gasoline, and the jolt that rocked through his body lifted her momentarily off the bed. He dragged his legs up, bending his knees, causing her to tip even further forward onto his hard torso and she put out her hands to brace herself against the headboard.

He changed the angle of the kiss, his tongue rough and hot silk, moving against hers before retreating again, causing her to groan and seek it out. A flare of irritation lit in the dark recesses of her mind; he was controlling this even as he lay prone beneath her.

She abruptly ended the kiss and dragged her mouth to his ear, pressing her bottom lip against the lobe as she whispered in his ear again.

"You're mine right now." Her undertone was harsh, and goose bumps rose on his arms. "Stop trying to control this, because it's mine to control."

She pushed on his chest like she was pushing open a door. _So this is what your side of the wall is like_, she thought wildly, appraising his face with eyes that he had never seen before; stark possession, an almost painful desolation. _I've been here before._

She looks like me, Edward thought as she dropped her mouth to his again.

The flashbulb pop of lust in his eyes as she lowered her head made her kiss rough. Her fingers began to sink into the hair at his nape as she tilted his head, her thumbs against the pulse points pounding at his jaw. The spike in speed as she slowly scraped her teeth along his bottom lip made her smile, and achingly slowly, deliberately, she sucked it into her mouth a little, slippery slick, mirror-smooth and perfect.

The press of his erection against her inner thigh felt hard enough to bruise her flesh, and she welcomed the blunt pain; felt an answering echo in her own body.

He tasted of every memory she'd ever had; layered, rich, faint and strong, familiar and odd memories she couldn't properly remember. She slowed the kiss to a languid exploration, bewildered that anything could affect her so intensely, flickering images behind her eyelids, her heart deafening her ears.

She deserted his mouth to return to his ear, breathing hot against it, making him groan and raise his hands to her bare thighs, gripping her flesh as she kissed her way from the thin, soft skin behind his ear to the heated base of his throat, licking at the unseen networks of veins and blood that ran deep and kept him in her world.

The thought of his heart ever stopping was enough to send a knife of panic stabbing into her, and she returned her mouth to his, kissing him wildly now, harder, teeth softly clinking as she breathed him, the familiar burn of tears behind her eyelids and wet between her thighs.

_You must never die_, she thought, _you must always live. _

The room, which had steadily been growing lighter, darkened slightly, a cloud veiling the pale new sun. It was as though the shadows and ghosts of all those who had walked the Earth before them had pressed their hands to the outsides of the walls of this room.

All those who had loved, and lived, and died.

Bella let out a broken sob as she pressed against him, frustrated that she couldn't get close enough, her hand reaching down again to stroke feverishly at his damaged side, wishing it was her own scar instead of his.

She began raking his jacket and shirt off down his back, and he leaned forward helpfully, his hands becoming tangled. The memory of his hot, wet phone sex threats made her pause, and she felt her cheeks dimpling in an evil smile as she released him, letting him sit tangled, his hands trapped at the small of his back.

He refused to struggle. He forced himself to submit.

She looked over him, her eyes now black and opaque, running and twisting her hands lightly over his torso, collarbone to waist, nape to sternum, the heat, the line of hair disappearing down and out of sight, the definition in his stomach and the deep V of muscle that made her lips tingle to kiss it. She licked her lips and ran her finger along it. He moved to free his wrists but she shook her head as she stroked down his chest.

Down lower, towards his straining arousal.

He suddenly rose up, twisting, getting to his knees, causing her to slither off his lap. He shook the cloth from his wrists and they knelt in front of each other in the centre of the bed, panting. He ran his hands down her curves, his fingers spreading over her hips before scraping at the dress on her thighs.

"If this happens, nothing will be the same," he warned her, wrapping the hem of her dress several times around his hand, pulling her closer, his eyes glittering feverishly. He paused, studying her face, noting the pink glow layering over her skin.

"I know," she whispered, raising her arms as she felt the cool air slide upwards, the thick fabric obscuring her vision before it was tossed across the room.

"It might not be gentle." He breathed against her shoulder, and she shivered as he began gathering her hair lazily on top of her head. She wore matching underwear, plain black cotton, and for a split second she felt inadequate, regretful she was not in lace or silk. She'd slept in her dress, and smelt of his bed, not perfume.

Warmth tinged her cheeks as he looked her over slowly, his artist's eyes appraising her, taking in her cream curves, one eye narrowing as if he was composing a portrait.

"I know," she said again, louder this time, and they both wobbled against each other, as if at sea.

"I'll go slow for as long as I can…." he muttered, his fist in her hair tugging to tilt her head, leaning in to bite a sharp and softened trail down the side of her neck, "It's not going to be easy. You're so sexy." His wrist shook slightly as he slid his hand through her hair to cradle her head as it grew heavy from pleasure.

Each delicate press of his teeth, the vibrations of his voice, made her shudder, and he paused at the base of her neck, opening his mouth to suck deeply, causing quivering sensations to echo in her body.

Taking a deep breath, he wrapped his arm around her waist and pressed their torsos together.

It was the most skin contact they had ever had and the shock was as potent as a burn.

He released her neck from his lips as he breathed out through his mouth onto her wet skin and leaned back to look at her face.

_I'm burning, I think_. She wanted to look down at their joined skin, but could not break the eye contact. He was trembling, and the zing in her nerve endings was too much to bear; the light hair on his body tantalising her white skin. How she would survive him stroking the tiny sweet ache between her thighs, she did not know.

His pupils dilated to leave only a thin ring of green, and she braced.

His arm slipped down, behind her knees, scooping her legs out from under her, and she felt the cool mattress against her back as his calloused palm cradled her neck. She reached for him, the loss of his skin against hers too great. He braced himself over her on one forearm, threading his fingers in her hair, dragging his chest lightly over her teasingly, causing her nipples to twist in response.

He lowered his mouth to hers, forcing her lips to slow as he tasted her need, quenching and igniting her desire with every slow slide of his tongue against hers, always leaving her wanting.

Flicker, flare, flame.

She arched under his lips as he tortured her softly, his mouth travelling to her jaw, holding his tongue flat against her pulse before descending lower, his fingers toying idly with the straps to her bra as he decorated her collarbones with reverent kisses, cooling the flesh with his breath.

Bella attempted to shrug off the strap, but he shook his head at her impatience, holding her still with long fingers.

"Slow," he ordered silkily.

"Faster," she countered breathlessly, and he shook his head.

"I've waited so long, why would I rush now?" Only the tremor in his forearm gave him away. Was she rushing forwards, trying to keep a step ahead of her guilt? Was that the strange flavour in her mind?

Bella closed her eyes, the increasing glow of the room under her eyelids, the passing of time as thick as honey as he meticulously ran his rough tongue down the outside of her arm, along to bite the inside of her elbow, to kiss each fingertip. She reflexively curled her hand, and groaned aloud when she felt him open his mouth, her bare ring finger sliding in.

He pushed up to brace over her again, sucking deeply, the answering pulse in her clitoris making him smile and swirl his tongue around her fingertip, the action unmistakably possessive as he pressed his teeth around the base of her finger. He pulled her hand from his mouth at her hollow gasp and touched the sharp tip of his canine tooth against her fingertip.

As one strap slipped to her arm, seemingly of its own volition, he slid his knee in between hers. She turned her head to the square fireball of the window at the other side of the room, the sun finally filtering through properly, turning the air to champagne.

She shuddered as he spoke. "Like a little bomb," he commented, his voice thick with amusement as he pressed his open mouth over her thudding heart. "Let's make you explode."

She flinched at his choice of words and reached her arm out to his scar, and he shook his head, returning his mouth to hers.

He caught her pout with his teeth, infinitely gentle, catching her broken sigh.

"Don't be sad for me," he breathed into her mouth. "Barely a scratch."

He replaced his teeth with his tongue, and kissed her once, lightly, his mouth opening her lips but not delving deeper.

He tasted the dark need in her blood. But he could still taste the sorrow she felt, as she worried over his side.

To distract her, he nudged the deep valley between her breasts with his nose, his chin scratching lightly. She smelled of… caramel… or white… fruit… or……apple blossom… he remembered jolting awake at dawn in a tent, the march of army boots alarmingly close to his head, certain he had caught her scent on his thin pillow, desperately turning his face into it.

Then he realised- She smelled like his sheets. Finally.

He growled, the peppermint of his breath further scenting her skin as he softly pressed kisses along the rounded flesh above the black bra, his cock throbbing in time to the desperate whimpers deep in her throat. Wincing at how uncomfortable the confines of his pants were, he shifted slightly, rubbing his ache against her leg as he rolled down her bra.

It was the first time he'd seen her breasts; not from want of trying during their teenage years. As he studied the white and the pink, surprisingly lush, he realised how inadequate his imagination truly was. She lay quivering beneath him, the trust in her eyes making him swallow a groan as he lowered his head to kiss her chin and commence the long, slow journey down her neck, to her heart, and beyond.

Each time she thought he would kiss her nipple, he kissed just shy of it. He smiled as he felt each flare of anticipation, each wilting of disappointment fluttering under her skin. She reached down into his hair, tugging lightly, but he merely gathered her wrists and held them above her head effortlessly in one hand.

The need to take control echoed back through her mind, and she attempted to struggle free from his hold, wanting to push him over onto his back.

"You control everything I do," he said into the crease below her right breast, annoyed with the underwire of her bra and the faint mark it had left on her skin. "You always have."

_How?_

"By being you." Finally, he licked a thick path upwards, and swirled his tongue around her puckered nipple, her breath catching in her lungs as the sensitised nerve endings struggled to report the sensations to her fevered brain.

Wet, hot, kiss, suck, slow, slow, slow.

"Surely you see now that all you have to do is live." He was scraping delicately with his teeth so gently she wasn't sure if she was imagining it. He nipped a little harder, to prove that she hadn't, smiling. "With me," he added.

"I don't even know _where_ you live," Bella said, and he paused, his mouth still. He was not breathing.

Suddenly, he was kissing again. Her skin felt so sensitive, she was sure she could feel the contours of his fingerprints against her, the lines on his palms. The hand that wasn't holding her wrists had drifted up slowly, drawing webs of sensation across her stomach and ribs, before he delved his fingers deep into the plush warmth between her breasts.

"Can I live here?" he asked softly, his mouth leaving her to press against her heart again, cupping her other breast, gently twisting and rubbing the tip with his fingers, his calloused skin creating the perfect friction. "Can this be my home?"

A thin cord of energy seemed to connect her nipple to her clitoris, and he laughed under his breath, the sound pure sex.

"I don't know what this means to you," she managed to say as he slid down and drew her nipple deeper into his mouth. She finally found enough fortitude to look down at him. The sight of his mouth closed over her breast, was enough to make her groan out loud, and he looked up at her through thick lashes, releasing her with a rough lick.

"You know everything now," he said softly as he dragged himself up to kiss her mouth again, craving the taste of her mouth each time he stopped. "You have to make the choice."

"What choice?" she said, thinking she had already made it; then realising what he meant.

Michael. Fiancé. Michael. A single frame, Michael's face, flashed through her mind. The guilt kicked her stomach like a mule.

Edward made an inhuman noise as he struggled with himself, forced his hand to deliberately loosen her wrists. Not trusting himself, he let her go altogether, fisting his hands on the pillow either side of her face.

"Don't even think his name. Not now. Not while you're here with me, like this."

He panted for a moment against her hair, the jealousy a venom pervading his bones, the urge to possess her in every way almost blinding him. That someone else had ever touched her….that she promised herself to another….

He swallowed, trying to clear his head, knowing in a sick moment of clarity that he would do anything, no matter how desperate or depraved, to keep her. He would crawl, or worse. The knowledge terrified and empowered him.

He didn't know what this said about him, but his cock grew impossibly harder.

He returned his mouth to her body, rougher this time, covering every inch of her shoulders and throat with tiny sucking kisses.

"It's me," he said angrily against her, sliding down, kneeling over her, giving her a glorious view of his broad shoulders, surprisingly sunkissed, muscles flexing beneath faint freckles. Long, strong spine. Narrow waist cut off by his black suit pants. Powerful arms and curving scar.

He scraped his teeth against her ribs at the corresponding place his own scar was, sharp enough to make her suck in a breath. He retraced the red line tenderly with his lips, making her squirm.

"It's me, and only me." He continued raggedly, sliding an arm up behind her to unclip her bra with an impressive snapping motion. He'd obviously had a lot of practice, she thought worriedly as he slipped the straps from her and flung it at the bookcase.

She covered herself, suddenly shy, and he rolled his eyes at her, tapping her hands away as he pushed up to kneel upright over her, blocking out the almost blinding sunrise light filtering in through the window behind him. He made her think of pagan gods, fallen angels, abandoned demons. He snagged one side of her black briefs and began to tug, pausing when he saw the chill of panic in her eye.

"What's wrong?" He asked gently, his brow creased in concern as he lifted her foot, his mouth on her ankle, his thumb pressing into the arch rhythmically, making her eyelids droop in pleasure.

"It's happening so soon," she managed. She was utterly overwhelmed; she doubted her heart would withstand this.

"It's been twenty six years. How much more build up do you need?" He seemed to rein himself back in, and released her underwear with a faint snap.

He pressed his tongue to her ankle, and began slowly licking up her leg. He nipped her knee, smiling at her squeak, and kissed up her thigh, the air chilling the line he left. He paused at the cotton.

"How many more miles?"

He looked up at her, the black band in his white teeth, and she shuddered at the sheer eroticism.

He bit hard into the cloth and dragged downwards, his hands going to the waistband of his pants. His breathing was heavy now, scorching her legs. He wrestled the complicated suit pants open, freeing himself, kicking them off as he ran his hands up and down her thighs, continuing with his rhetorical questioning as he slid his fingers up towards her heat.

"How many more nights do I need to be apart from you?"

He was finally naked, and the sight of his body was beyond any gasping erotic nightmare she had jolted awake from over the years. His stomach muscles flexed as he heard her mental gasp as she caught sight of his cock. _Beautiful_ she thought. _Big,_ she amended, and he snorted with laughter.

He swirled his fingers lightly around her clit, causing her to bow up off the bed at the swift spark of ecstasy. Shaking his head, smirking faintly, he pushed her down flat with a palm between her breasts.

"You are mine," he repeated relentlessly, over and over, as he feathered his fingertips over her, addicted to the shortening of her breath, the dark sweep of eyelashes quivering against her cheek.

"I'll do what I have to do to keep you…" at this, he paused, stilled his fingers, enjoying her groan of disappointment and her shifting hips.

He didn't miss the flash in her eyes as he spoke these words.

"You've always loved how I can't control myself when you're concerned," he said, circling again, enjoying the lift of her hips in response and the pink blush sweeping across her breasts.

"I'm such a _caveman_." He said almost inaudibly in a sarcastic drawl. She whimpered, and he felt the tremor of fear run through her.

"Don't be afraid of it," he said, sliding a finger into her, twisting softly.

"Accept it. Don't you know I'd kill for you?"

"That's what I'm afraid of," she managed to pant.

He worked slowly, methodically, in and out of her, adding a second finger, stroking the g spot she hadn't known existed. She made an embarrassingly wanton sound and bit her lip to remind herself not to get louder.

"You're always the picture of control. But I'm going to change that." He pressed the base of his thumb against her again, and she couldn't help but think of his finger on a camera's button. He would push her over, capture her.

She freefell towards orgasm until he caught her, shaking his head. "Not yet." He warned.

She lay trembling, eyes unfocused, not noticing his wicked smile as he said, "Okay, now", and twisted his fingers once, pressing against the small patch of rough flesh inside her.

Bella shattered against his palm, grasping wildly at something, _anything_, to anchor her to the bed. The pulsing tremors gradually subsided and she was dimly aware of how ragged his own breathing was. She felt an empty craving at once as he slowly tugged his fingers; her flesh unwilling to let him go. He wrenched open his bedside drawer, tearing open a black square of foil with his teeth, the devilish glint in his eye making her shiver.

"Do you buy anything that _isn't_ black?" She managed between the hot breaths that wracked her lungs.

He paused as he considered this. "It all matches my black, black heart," he said lightly. She held her hand out for it, and he passed it to her with a question in his eyes.

"My turn," she whispered, closing it in her fist, and used what strength she had left to push him over.

She crawled up over him, bracing her trembling arms on either side of his face as he watched with eyes more bronze than green. The light seemed to shimmer with filaments of amber.

She could not know, but Edward saw. Her eyes were not brown; in this ancient Aztec light, they were gold.

She mirrored his previous actions, and nibbled slowly down his neck, her hair trailing over him as light as sea foam, her body softly moving backwards and forth, a tide of passion.

"Bella-" he whispered hoarsely as she closed her mouth over his heart.

"I don't believe for a second that this is black," she responded softly as she kissed the hot flesh, feeling the strong relentless pounding, and she only realised she had wept a tear when she tasted salt. "It's so lost….. but never black."

Had she been told three days ago that she could make him shake, she would never have believed it. But as she trailed her mouth down lower, his muscles trembled under her lips.

"It has a scar, but I'll kiss it better," she said almost inaudibly against his side, kissing the line that fate had laid down; proof that he was meant to remain, walking this Earth. She moved to slide lower, but he put a hand in her hair, encouraging her upwards to kiss him, a surge of desperation cresting, drenching them both, and they began tussling softly, each trying to roll the other over. She caught his wrist and he raised his eyebrow, deftly removing the foil square from her palm.

She was no match for him, and as he wrapped his legs around hers and pressed her down, he kissed her eyes. She arched beneath him, rubbing against him as he reached between them. "Hurry," she begged, and he crawled up between her thighs when he was ready, smoothing one hand down her leg, hitching it up onto his hip.

"Slow," he muttered huskily, the look in his eye making her muscles clench in anticipation.

She felt him pressing against her and upgraded her initial observation to huge. She reached up to cradle his jaw, pulling him down for a kiss.

His voice was velvet against her lips. "How many can make you feel this way, but me?"

She gasped as he pressed against her, her heat and the wet inviting him in. His nostrils flared but he only pushed in slightly, giving her time to adjust, and he watched her eyelids flutter closed with a feeling akin to worship.

"Look at me," he whispered, sinking in further, glancing to check his progress. Only half way, and she was tighter than anything.

Her eyes opened, and his heart flipped as he heard the answer to all his questions before her mouth could form the sound.

"None."

"Correct answer," he groaned, holding still, waiting for her body to adjust, for his heart to stop.

"Talk to me, talk to me," he muttered as he closed his eyes, desperate for distraction to stop him from thrusting hard, reaching unseeing for her hands, linking his fingers with hers. "You are so incredibly tight."

_How many others do you have this connection with?_ Her thought rang clear, soaked with possessiveness. He looked down into her eyes, the tiny thorn of jealousy in her thoughts spurring him, making his blood heat.

"None," he echoed her as he began to thrust lazily, each thrust knocking her breath from her lungs, reaching up his hand to twist it in her hair, rubbing his roughened knuckle against her bottom lip.

"Is that good?" he asked breathlessly. His fingers slid up under her arched back to slide across her damp skin, down her spine.

"You – tell – me" she responded, the heavy ridge of his cock's head rubbing where she needed it, a new urgency building. She hooked her leg more firmly around his hip. He eased back, still rocking at a leisurely pace, frowning in concentration. She realised he was listening to her mind, and she grasped at his waist in frustration, wanting to see what he kept simmering beneath.

_Lose it. Show me._

He wrapped his arm around her waist and slammed hard into her once, his mouth lifting in a lopsided smile. "Like that?" He eased back, each slow deliberate thrust the most beautiful torment.

_No, you're still in control._

He repeated the forceful motion, reaching one hand down to feel her, vice tight.

"I don't want to be too rough," he whispered raggedly, toying with her clit as he continued with his slow thrusts. "I need to make this last."

I don't know if this is the last time, he thought, committing every glint of light in her eyes to memory, dropping his face into her neck when the emotion cut too deep.

_You're thinking too much. Maybe you don't want me that badly-_

He thrust harder involuntarily at this thought.

"No one will _ever_ want you more than I do." He leaned forward to press his teeth against her neck.

_Are you going to fuck me properly? Are you going to make me yours?_

He slammed hard into her, wishing she had said those ridiculously hot words out loud. She let out a gasp of triumph. That was how she needed it.

_You can be slow and gentle another time. Right now, I want it harder._

His breath burned her neck as he increased his pace, still holding back slightly.

_You think I'm yours?_

He thrust so hard he lifted her off the bed, the furious grunt in the back of his throat thrilling her. "I _know_ it."

He pulled out almost entirely, before plunging in again, to the hilt.

"You will never again do this with anyone else," He bit out as he caught her eye, his face savage, hard, almost pain. "You are _mine_."

_Show me._

She closed her eyes as he lost control. He gathered her up, sliding her ankle up to his neck to deepen and intensify the sensation. He panted open mouthed against her calf and his grinding hips brought her to the edge again, sending her effortlessly shimmering into sensation.

"Two," he muttered, biting the inside of his mouth as the echo of her pleasure hit his bloodstream.

He increased his pace steadily, putting out a hand to grip the headboard, swallowing moans at how good she felt, how right this was. He fought to slow his movements, his lungs straining.

When her thought filtered through, he paused. "What?"

_You're mine._

His hips snapped forwards involuntarily. She smiled. The force and the wild look in his eye was intense, and she wrapped her hand around the nape of his neck.

"You think I'm yours? You're actually mine," she panted between his hard thrusts.

"I own you, and you're terrified of that," she said into the shell of his ear.

Her eyes widened as she realised she was going to come again; the tightening pleasure turning in smaller and smaller spirals, and as he rested his cheek against hers, she could hear him saying something as the unbearable friction between their bodies became too much, and the volcanic pleasure blasted through her, eclipsing anything she had ever thought was pleasure, turning every transient memory of past physical pleasure to ash.

Her cry of surprise reverberated in her throat, along with the words _of course, of course_, that trailed unbidden through her consciousness as she splintered in pleasure, her body convulsing, her muscles wringing him, her hands grasping the sheets, his hair.

Her eyes drifted shut as she felt the endless velvet whips flay her flesh; heavy satisfaction settling into her bones.

He was speaking cryptic strange black and velvet words, urgent against her neck, his breath burning her ear and she fluttered her hand up to press against his mouth. He pressed his lips tenderly against her fingers, even as he pressed harder and deeper still.

_You have been mine, all along. Give in to me._

He caught her eye, seeing his own faint reflection, and she caught him as he fractured.

His body shook with passion and exhaustion as he braced himself over her, the lifetime of yearning and lust blasting through him like a storm, a death, a bomb. Lightening strikes and every colour but black. The fathomless beauty of her heart; the only good thing he had ever wanted. Life was nothing if she could not be captured, and in this instant, he was held in the perfect palm of her hand.

She felt him convulsing endlessly, the guttural sound in his throat making her tighten around him in response, making him quiver, and as she reached up to touch his fevered face, she whispered, "Are you okay?"

Bella felt his tear drop upon her cheek, where it mingled with the silvered tracks already running down her neck, and she closed her eyes as he dipped his head to kiss the salt.

In this strange, private war that had been waged since the moment they realised they were separate people, there were no victors, there were no survivors. Each was slain, exhausted bodies upon the white flag of sheets.

As their breathing slowed, and they cautiously took inventory, each was acutely aware that the path they had chosen had always been mapped, but that there was no shelter from the mercurial elements that always advanced relentlessly upon Forks. They lay, bare and shivering, and Edward laid his face upon her heart, willing her to walk towards him, not to turn back and leave him alone.

In Bella's bedroom down the hall, her silenced cell phone again glowed to life.

Light bright and insistent, flashing over and over, it was the word _Michael_.

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**A/N:**** Reviews are better than gold to me. Please make me rich. And besides, reviewers make better lovers. **


	16. Chapter 15: More or Less

**A/N: ****I do not own Twilight, or any of its characters, it all belongs to Stephenie Meyer!**

***taps microphone* is this thing on? Is there anyone out there? **

**If you've rejoined me, greetings, hugs, kisses. **

**My acknowledgements and gratitude go to Team TB&TC: **

**bookbag, gutterfairy, carrie3101. **

**And special thanks to YOU, treasured reader, for rejoining me and tolerating the long wait with grace and forbearance. Your kind messages and goodwill have been wonderful to receive. **

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**Chapter Fifteen: More or Less  
**

All tides, no matter how strong and black the undertow, are slaves of the moon. At her bidding they must grudgingly return what they have reclaimed, or stolen. It is the way of things; an endless cycle of drown and deliverance; shipwreck and salvage, the strange gravitational chain stretched taut between the darkened Earth and its white, pale lover.

Caught and held by jealous gravity after floating for so long in the arms of a cruel, indifferent ocean, Bella gasped deeply for air as she was slowly washed ashore onto the white cotton sand of Edward's bed.

The waves had pushed and rolled her onto her stomach, and she lay with eyes half closed, her mind smooth and dark like a pebble, her skin glazed with salt and mint.

She had drifted for so long, perhaps longer than she realised, maybe for years, until she felt she was nothing more than the glittering ruby orbit of blood in her veins. She was alive now; she knew that much. The slow pendulum swing of her heart against her ribs was proof enough of that. She hadn't been drowned, but the burn in her lungs made her think she had come so close.

She could see nothing through her eyelashes aside from the thick cream of the sheet under her face, and she shied away from the strange, painful rumblings echoing in her mind, too disoriented to work out why her subconscious was fretting. It pressed an arrow tip to her stomach, and she breathed deep until it dissipated a little.

There was a twist in her stomach, a feeling of being wounded, and yet healed.

Every cell in her body was heavy lead exhaustion. Her body dutifully reported back to her brain, but she received these notifications with the weary inattention of a graveyard shift manager, laying aside the updates even though she should examine them.

She had a vague awareness that hot hands were stroking down the length of her spine, achingly slowly, leaving behind a warm friction that inch by inch awoke her skin. The nerve endings were each being lit like birthday candles, needing to be blown out but instead left to smoulder.

Every tiny hair on her skin rose in anticipation as the hands advanced, only to be smoothed down, and smooth nails gently scratched in spirals as though rewarding the flesh for its pliant cooperation.

These same hands, rough-skinned yet so gentle, slid back up, fanning out across her back like tracing wings, thumbs pressing firmer, dragging parallel lines along the gentle dip of her back and she felt her toes curl in response.

Heat fanned across her from an impossible sun, and she feared she was slowly scorching. Her mouth was suddenly dry; from thirst or something more, she was unsure.

She felt her hair being painstakingly combed and shaken out, and a dark jewelled memory was lit by the building flames, something that made her heart ache, but she turned away from the flicker.

She was not ready to think, or remember, just yet. Her body produced a deep, wracking shiver as the heavy mass was twisted up, away from her neck, and a mouth began placing deep, hot kisses on her nape, each slower than the last.

In the silences between her heartbeats, she could hear her rescuer talking to her, so faint and far away it was almost a foreign language on a half tuned radio, but the subtitles and tone were undeniable- dark crooning words of lust and longing, and a tremor of fear. She closed her eyes, shushing her heart, trying to eavesdrop, or understand. It was no use.

She tried and failed to muster the energy to turn her head.

She concentrated on the smaller task of refocussing her blurring eyes. She practiced on the grid of cotton. Her eyes, still the brown-gold of roman coins, struggled to adjust to the light that filtered through and gradually spot-lit pieces of her consciousness.

The hands continued to revive her, coaxing her back to the tangled, twisted consciousness that she fought against, caressing over her waist and the rounded curves and this time continued down the backs of her legs, the synapses in her brain beginning to spark and snap into life. A sensation, akin to pins and needles, but more like feathers and fingernails, began to travel slowly up her body, from the upturned arches of her feet, up her legs, through her spine and to her mind, which finally reached coherency.

_I'm… heavy… I can't move_, she realised, and the hands that glided over her flesh gently lifted her abandoned hand and wiggled her fingers. She felt a hot gust on her shoulder, and a sound that she thought was a laugh, or a sigh, she couldn't be sure.

_I can't… Not yet… _She managed to say in her mind, sending the message into the darkness, a white envelope pushed under a dark door, as time hardened like cement, weighing down her skin, and fatigue reclaimed her.

She dreamt that she lay sleeping in the warm, heavy arms of a clock that ticked against her ear.

*o*o*o*o*o*o

Crawling shivering out of the dark, Bella lifted her lids, a sinking desperation in her bones. She wished she could remain forever in this place, in this time, and not have to face the teeth and claws of the outside world. She clung to the dark anchor of sleep, feeling herself being pulled upwards to the waking surface, and she tried to let herself sink.

_Help…_ she thought, her eyelashes curling against her forearm, and she felt the warmth she had taken for granted roll away, cold air wafting over her. The sheet was being lifted and tossed over her, settling down onto her skin in an icy vanilla crinkle.

She felt the delicious heat returning and was grateful. She felt herself being turned slowly onto her back, her limbs carefully handled and arranged, her cheekbones gently pressed by something soft. Then she felt nothing; no contact, no warmth, no sweet-acid sting. The soft words ceased. The cells of her body hummed their disappointment.

Finally, the silence was broken and she heard his voice.

He whispered huskily in her ear the words that had always lain on her tongue; words that had been in her mouth when she jolted awake in black, empty rooms, in all the featureless years that she had survived since she left this place.

"Come back to me," Edward muttered softly, roughly, his throat finally able to form the words, surprised his voice was not an animal howl.

*o*o*o*o*o*o

As Edward lay awake in the hours when Bella wandered the strange landscapes of her dreams, he remembered how he used to climb into her room at night, when they were teenagers. The memory was as vivid as if he had just done so, and he could almost feel the pinching reproof of the windowsill against the back of his thigh.

Visiting her as she slept had been a compulsion, something he could not completely control, like so many things to do with her. Though the increasingly beleaguered drainpipe warned him each time that this could be his last attempt, and the shrubs below braced, he still slid his leg over the sill with a sick guilty triumph.

He would kick off his sneakers and ghost across her room, casting a black shadow over her face, lifting the heavenly cloud of eiderdown and gently nudging her over. He'd fall down deep into the plush white marshmallow of bed, fully clothed, in his chest an odd sensation that he couldn't pinpoint- ache, or release. Pressing his cold face against her neck, he would pray the thud of his heart wouldn't wake her. Red rust from the drainpipe would be on his palms and he would wrinkle his nose at the sharp smell of copper.

All those years ago, like he had now, he would gather her up and cradle her as the mattress dipped and swayed beneath, rolling him further in, against her warm light bulb glow.

Back then, he would stroke her inner arm like he was playing a harp, even though slipping into her bed after midnight like Peter Pan's evil older brother was hardly angelic.

Sometimes, on the best nights, she was dreaming of him, and it was this that kept him climbing back to her, over and over, a nocturnal addiction to her flesh and the unlocked vault of her mind.

Each morning that she struggled out groggily from under his arm and cast him an unsurprised glance, he would firmly resolve that it was the very last time. He'd bite back the bitter foolishness with a flippant remark that would make her scowl, or take in a hurt breath.

How could she have been surprised tonight, to learn of her power?

On so many nights, he had watched his own hands, with a removed kind of astonishment, as they dragged him robotically up the side of the house.

By day, he continued his relentless campaign to capture her.

By night, he was too tired to fight against the white glow, and he was the enslaved.

The nights he managed to stay in his own bed were endless, usually sleepless, and it was only the heavy thud of music that could pin him to his mattress. He needed it to drown out the soft intake of her breath he was sure he could still hear through the suffocating layers of brick, air and gold wallpaper.

The breath so sweet he could taste it.

Even lying against her, with only warm cloth separating their skin, he could never get close enough. It was enough to make him twist in his skin, and the frustration stoked the daylight burn as he watched her, guarded her, bloodied his knuckles and ruined any chances of having any true male friends.

Trapped in an endless daily masquerade ball, he spun her close and breathed on her neck, pushed her away and arrogantly raised an eyebrow at other women, but always he held her hand with a grip that turned her knuckles white. Always pulled her back to him to repeat the motion once more.

The witching hour visitations caused him to lay his mask on the side of her pillow night after night, always ensuring it was safely back in place by morning.

He had finally let her see beneath, he thought abstractly as he cradled her closer, fascinated and appalled by how hard she fought against waking. Was he such a horrifying option? Was the mistake so profound, that she could not bear it? Should he leave?

He worried over this as he continually attempted to stop stroking her arm, the magnetic pull of her skin thwarting his half-hearted attempts. The pain of her regret was going to be too much; he had to stop.

One more, he'd tell himself, dreading the feel of her forearm narrowing to her wrist, fine bones, feeling her fingernails under his palm. This is the last time, he told himself sternly, his hand rounding her shoulder again. And again. And again.

Her breath grew sharp and an insidious poison dripped into her veins. He winced in pain as he recognized her guilt, long before she would. He didn't know strong he could be, and for how long.

The dream she was surfacing from was like vines and thorns and black blossoms under the weight of water. So strange and beautiful, so painful. He remembered that when they were teenagers, she had recurring dreams of running that made her twitch and sob under her breath, which shamefully had hardened his cock and made his heart hurt, and made him wish for the millionth time that she could hear him too.

So she could know that their instinct was the same.

He knew about running. Towards, or from, he had always been running.

In his other life, the horrific world he saw through wafer thin glass, Edward had stood so close to guerrilla gunmen that he could see the fevered glint of conviction in their eyes.

He had felt the whipcrack flash of a bullet pass by his shoulder with only a foot to spare, the shockwaves making his teeth rattle, his only thought being to breathe deep to steady his hands, to keep mechanically touching the button, the endless need to capture, capture, numb yet somewhere inwardly screaming. Over the years, he had deliberately honed his ability to not run, but walk towards.

Even if it caused immeasurable pain.

The searing shock of being cut open was still alarmingly fresh and he winced now, making Bella frown in her sleep.

He remembered the blunt terror, as he fell to Earth like a shot bird, that he would never see Bella again, never repossess her, never be claimed by her.

That if the only thing he could give her was the blood on his hand as proof of his heart, then it would have to be enough. As he took the frame that was possibly his last; a photographic love letter from the brink of his world, he lay down in the sand and breathed air that tasted like her breath until the black curtain was dropped.

Now, safe in his bed and a million miles away from that roadside where he had his epiphany, he gazed at Bella's face, clearly returning to consciousness, and he knew those moments had all been preparing him for this.

Edward decided that whatever he saw in her face when she woke would guide him, would be his sign. He half smiled as he thought the word 'sign'. Esme would be proud, he mused wryly.

He always saw Bella's true feelings in those unguarded moments, just like all of his candid photographs. He prayed that her face wouldn't twist with horrified realisation; that she wouldn't climb out of bed and drag her clothes on with shaking hands.

Taking a breath, he turned her over like a hand of cards. Hearts, diamonds.

To say the stakes were high would be the biggest understatement of his oft-gambled life.

"Come back to me," he repeated, hearing the note of desperation in his voice, and he dug his nails into his palms to punish himself.

As her brow gently creased, he braced himself for the moment of reckoning, the blast of toxic guilt she would feel as her lashes lifted, and she realised what a mistake she had made.

He was relieved they weren't touching. He wasn't a masochist. He braced over her, his muscles trembling.

Ever the strategist, in the seconds before she opened her eyes, Edward charted out her every possible reaction with lightning mental calculations; the same judgements he made when anticipating the fall of light on his subject.

He equipped himself with strategies for her guilt, her anger, denial or rejection. Admittedly, these strategies were all based on a modified divide and conquer, turning her lust against her, to show her what could not be denied.

He began fortifying himself without realising it. His main defence- his temper- slid into place like a bullet into a chamber.

As she looked up and pierced him with her glorious bronzed eyes, he wobbled on the ledge and fell in a spiral, shuddering inside, and he quickly improvised, turning his head to rub his cheek nonchalantly against his shoulder to buy himself some time. The silence was deafening and he grimly resisted the urge to rest his forearm against her.

From the corner of his eye, he caught the upturned corner of her mouth. He turned back to her, and finally found the frame he had been searching for.

And in that moment, he knew he had a soul.

He could feel it.

*o*o*o*o*o*o

Bella's eyes focused and she gradually saw colour. They were the colours of the person she loved best, and as she stretched her legs and felt pain and pleasure, her mouth tilted upwards without her knowledge.

She tried to filter her vision to see only one at a time, to avoid being engulfed. She focused first on his eyes, the lush dark jewel of green inlaid with gold, the long lashes that lay on his cheek as he studied her.

She hurriedly moved on to his maze of autumn hair before he could pin her with those eyes and completely unravel her.

The sheet he had thrown over them both, hiding them from reality, cast his treasure-chest technicolour into even more vivid contrast. His skin was gold against the white. His dark brows were set in his customary faint frown.

His mouth was juicy sweet, and as her gaze dropped to it his tongue appeared and pressed against his bottom lip. It was pink and made her think of cakes and sex. He surrounded her; his colours and scent overwhelming her; his warmth divine, his solid bulk pressing down on the mattress around her, yet avoiding her skin.

She closed her eyes for a moment. As always, he blazed too bright.

Her arm was nudged briefly, and she reopened her eyes with real effort. She was suddenly jolted through the web that separates sleep and awareness, and she opened her mouth, a shuddering gasp escaping her.

_Nothing will be the same… I know. _

The icy fingers of reality were numbing her fingers and toes, and the sickness spread even as she tried to halt it, desperately trying to still her mind, diverting her attention to the pearlescent skin stretched taut over his thick collarbone, his roughened jaw.

Edward scowled murderously as he detected her hesitation in meeting his eye.

She closed her eyes casually, feigning another stretch, forcing herself to lie relaxed, to keep her breath soft and even, as the full extent of what had happened solidified the air to ice. She lay frozen in place, acid against the back of her eyelids, her heart shredded open.

Michael's easy smile hit her first; the set of his shoulders in court under the fine cloth of his suit that always spoke of his dedication to fairness. The way that he became consumed by the battles he fought was so typical of him; after a case ended he sometimes had to sleep for a full day and night. He was tireless in his pursuit of truth to its lair, and she hated that she had committed a crime against him.

A gentle life of ease and privacy had been gambled for unknown stakes, and she wasn't sure if she would win, or lose.

Now that Edward had finally caught her, she supposed that the chase was over. He would turn his attention to new games with new playmates, the insecure voice inside shrilly piped up.

He had claimed her, she couldn't deny it. She had even claimed him. Were those words worth the same when not spoken in moments of slick, torturous pleasure?

The serrated edges of panicked thoughts sawed at her insides in the fraction of time before she opened her eyes again, taking a breath to steady her shaking.

Edward was on his hands and knees over her, somehow not touching or hearing, yet commanding her attention, his face filling her entire field of vision. She tried to look away, but could not.

He stared down into her eyes, a tiny frown line between his brows as he studied the intricate prisms of colour in her eyes. She had to blink from the intensity of his gaze; she felt more open, more exposed, than she had in her life.

She felt cut open. Laid out. Unfolded. Being naked was nothing compared to this pared-back study of her face, her soul, and she felt the strange prickle of awareness she always felt when he watched her through the lens.

He tilted his head, frowned harder, like a man studying a very strange map. Like he was working out what direction he needed to take.

Bella examined his face in return, her stomach brimming with sharpened butterflies, and realised that she had no defences left against him.

His eyes darkened imperceptibly as his expression grew harder, possessive, and a tremor passed through them both. His glare was ferocious and sudden energy shimmered almost visibly under his skin. She felt the tension in his arms, sensed his hands clenched in tight fists on either side of her neck.

Anyone else would have cowered back from an expression so frightening. He looked like he was about to breathe sparks and thunder. Odin could have learnt something from the way Edward looked now.

To someone else, he was as unreadable as a brick wall. Bella unthinkingly raised her hands to pull away the sheet from over them, ringing the bed in golden light again, and clasped the back of his neck, to smooth away the harsh desolation that he had almost successfully masked.

She felt a soft, uncurling strangeness inside her as his lids dropped at her touch.

Something swelled inside her, she tried to tamp down the smothering softness, but she couldn't, and involuntarily it tickled up the edges of her mouth again. He was so sweet, frowning down at her, looking like a demon trying to conceal soft white wings. She had never seen anyone so beautiful, someone who had such tender, infinite depths, attempting to look so fierce. Who did he think he was fooling? She pressed her lips together to keep from smiling, the complete mood swing knocking her off kilter.

Abruptly his brow smoothed. Apparently, he had found what he was searching for, and he looked her over again with a kind of dark pleasure.

If only she knew what he had seen in her eyes, always saw in her, she thought as her giddiness dissipated a little. Please show it to me. What have you always seen?

A building of noise in her ears caused her to stiffen until she realised it was her pulse.

Horses' hooves ringed in silver cutting into turf, faster, stronger, nearing their destination, relief in every throbbing strike.

His mouth slowly lifted into a smile, and as his eyes glowed from within, he was unrecognizable, and she was blinded.

Horses, heart, silvered soul, were all thrown down from his jagged cliffs into perfumed black ink.

Edward's true beauty had lain dormant below the surface his entire life, she could see that now. She was seeing him properly for the first time.

She forgot to breathe, and began to die a little as she lay helplessly stunned by the horrified realisation that he was so happy because he thought she had chosen, _chosen. _It was too soon- she had no time to decide what to do. She could almost feel the tight loop around her finger, the cold shard of carbon symbolising a choice already made.

Once again she was approaching a fork in the road.

Michael, whose only failing had been loving her too softly.

Edward, whose lifelong sin had been loving her too hard.

The golden tiger stripes of light through the drapes backlit and illuminated him, and Edward's happiness sparked and burned within his chest.

He was a dark stained glass window finally lit; damaged and cracked, but all the more breathtaking for it.

The leadlight green of his eyes was so transparent and delicate that it caused her physical pain, and her stomach flipped like a fish.

Had she ever thought him handsome before, she had been mistaken. That had not been beauty. Edward, truly happy, was beyond comprehension.

She began shivering as she considered the choice again.

Ease and solitude, privacy she had never known.

Or, being consumed daily by the one who could walk the catacombs of her subconscious anytime he pleased.

She wanted to vanish from the planet, return to the floating place where no one would be hurt by her.

"Don't you sleep?" She finally managed hoarsely, trying to regain her footing, to hide her fear. Her voice didn't sound like her own, but more a throaty reminder of her moans of pleasure.

Her skin was live wires submerged in water, and as he eased down to her in a slow feline movement, she wanted to warn him, I might hurt you. She couldn't open her mouth again to speak, because he was incandescent, and his light burned the air from her lungs.

She quaked in fright, uncomprehending that someone so otherworldly could lay their mouth upon hers.

In the moment before his mouth and body touched hers, she prayed.

"I'll never sleep again," he whispered teasingly into her mouth. "Complete waste of time."

Without any conscious thought, her mouth opened to his, and she felt a swift uprising thrill through her body, but it was more than the chemical reaction of her blood to his.

His joy, like an upwards rush of tiny silvered birds, flashed through her body to flutter in her ribs.

Surely he could taste her heart, her soul; they had bubbled up so close to his lips now as he smiled against her and kissed her more deeply, whispering "Sugary," into her mouth, and she breathed the odd word deep.

His mouth was delectable and she ran her tongue along his lip, a familiar urge to consume him simmering in her chest.

Familiar, she realised, because she had carried it for years.

"Me too," he breathed against her temple, velvet soft, "But you always knew."

She raised her hands to his neck, hoping to calm him, to soften the crackling energy that made him quiver and his eyes fever-bright.

At her touch, he dropped down onto his elbows, his body collapsing like a house of cards over her, and she abstractly marvelled at how clearly her eyes saw, truly _saw_ every one of his combined perfections.

His white smile widened impossibly more he started laughing softly, his sweet breath fanning her cheekbones.

"I've nearly killed you," he said, and rested his forehead to hers companionably.

"Are you paralysed?"

She stretched experimentally, grimaced. "I've pulled a muscle in my leg." She felt his brow crease against hers.

One frame flashed between them; her ankle against his neck.

Her body responded instantly, a tightening and a flutter, and his mouth quirked and his eyes flashed in decadent promise.

He ran his hand down her other uninjured leg and hooked his hand under her knee. He lifted it slowly an inch off the bed. Devilishly, he dipped to nibble her ear, making her squirm.

"Sorry about that. Shall I even you up?" He didn't look sorry at all; in fact, he was trembling with suppressed laughter, his happiness a thousand times more potent than his rage.

Bella dropped her arms heavily to her sides, and chewed on her mouth to stop smiling.

"No thanks. I'd prefer to limp, rather than not be able to walk at all." She lost the fight, and grinned at him, and as a reward he laid a kiss upon her smiling lips.

"That's not an option, I'm afraid," Edward whispered behind her ear, his voice dripping with amusement.

He slid a hand down her body. Her soft gasp that she tried to hide fuelled him, and he was a tiger pouncing on her soft fluttering heart.

He kissed her softly, endlessly, the residual confusion and guilt in her mind making him inwardly recoil and frown in concentration, blocking out the soft hum of her thoughts until they were just a blur in the background.

Deliberately ignoring her was so foreign a concept it momentarily threw him, and she sensed his hesitation. He returned his lips to her skin, whipping back the desperation that was cornering him, and he realised this might be his last chance to make her see, to remove any doubt in her mind and to cement all they had built at dawn.

And so, he kissed her endlessly, tenderly; the taste of her mouth was something he couldn't get enough of, and he unknowingly built a cycle of soothing slow kisses, building to biting urgency and then reining back to softness.

Though it cost him, and his blurred, fatigued mind occasionally failed, he blocked out her thoughts, and relied on her breathing to tell him what he needed to know.

Bella, shivering on the sheets, fought to keep her mind from him as he pressed kisses that were so deep, so relentlessly intimate they made her inwardly quake. He was overwhelming her, deliberately distracting her with teeth and tongue, and she was relieved. She didn't want to dwell on her monumental transgression.

She was trapped between two places. Thinking of Michael while Edward's tongue slid against hers was wrong. But she had no right to this pleasure. She concentrated on the sensations sparking through her body, which reacted without question, while trying to shuffle away the sickness that lined her stomach, made her mind tick over too fast, and she wondered why he had not pulled away in anger.

Perhaps he wasn't listening, she realised. She decided to test. As he scraped his teeth down the column of her throat, she allowed the stain to spread in her thoughts; how wrong this really was. How she belonged to someone else.

She opened her eyes, stared at the ceiling, but sensed nothing to indicate he had heard. There was nothing but the relentless slide of his tongue into the hollow of her collarbone. As she felt him slide lower, the bitterness of her cyanide guilt was forgotten a little as the pleasure fizzed in her arteries.

Edward gauged her reactions by the tension under her skin, the misting of sweet perspiration that bloomed. This, he tasted on the underside of her breast. His concentration wavered for the first time when she moaned in ecstasy when he drew her nipple deep into his mouth, rolled it against his tongue like a diamond.

Bella felt her thoughts gradually sliding out, as her ragged breaths began to build. The scratch of his stubble was delicious; she pressed harder against the tiny sting.

Briefly, Edward allowed himself one small peek into her mind, after so long of being good. Her thoughts were pantingly desperate- yet tinged with a despair that made him pull back to study her face. She dropped her eyes from his, and he frowned.

"Alright?" He asked softly, kissing her lips and tasting her sigh. The mood was shifting, and he suddenly felt her retreating from him on some emotional level. Panic made him react; he began to slide his hand to places that he could stroke to really make her sob for him. It was all he could use to reel her back to him, something that she could not deny, and as she relaxed and indeed began to groan his name, he hid his triumphant smile and kept her dangling on the end of this red cotton thread of pleasure.

He reached to his bedside drawer, and the snarl of his desperation to be skin to skin made him bite down hard on his bottom lip, enough to taste a hint of copper, and he tore it open as a grim reprimand. Control yourself, he told himself roughly, fumbling with the task as she tugged at his hair. He pressed his mouth to her temple and allowed himself to listen once more. She was only thinking of him, of her need, and he closed his briefly eyes in thanks.

"You said I was yours," he said lightly as he pressed into her, rubbing circles on her stomach with his knuckles. He watched her eyes darken to black.

"Is that still true?"

His eyes were a curious mix of seriousness and mischief as he slowly pressed their hips together, and began to slide in gentle strokes, enjoying her raw purr. As always, he somehow made his most serious words sound like a tease, and he congratulated himself for not hissing the words at her as her body gripped him.

But still, she did not answer, and this made him ache.

Her eyes drifted closed at the pleasure his body so effortlessly created. It was almost like being able to float again. The deep, beautiful sensation was-

Edward stopped moving.

She opened her eyes, looking up at him in askance.

"Look at me," he said softly, firmly, his eye holding a hint of steel. He resumed his calculated movements, the soft advance and retreat building her ache.

His eyes were so intense as he looked down at her, and the glint of emotion in his eyes was too much; made her turn her head away again. She didn't know what name to give those emotions, but she knew they were dangerous, and deep. He stilled.

"This is happening. You're here with me. Look at me." He cradled her jaw, stroking her until she slowly turned to face him squarely again. He looked so supremely in control, she hated herself as she moved against him in vain, attempting to get something, anything. To return to the place where it was just her, with him, in pleasure.

A sound she realized was a whimper escaped her parted lips. This was agony. A light pulse beat rapidly in every sensitive part of her body.

He raised his eyebrows and shrugged casually at her annoyed frown, pulling his hips back agonizingly slowly before recommencing the maddening rocking.

He drew himself up onto his knees and locked her legs around his waist without missing a single motion; every deep slow thrust fuelling a curling pleasure deep in her bones.  
The burn was growing brighter, and he towered over her, a tiny smile playing on his lips as he watched, loving her response.

Bella forgot herself, and as her lids slid closed and she felt the sensation wash through her, his movements ceased.

She popped her eyes open, and he smiled charmingly down at her.

"Anything wrong?" He enquired lightly, loving how her luscious toffee eyes were alternately piqued and vulnerable. His arms slid under her waist to lift her body effortlessly up off the mattress, and her skin was shockingly white and tender against his.

"Stop teasing." She muttered, realizing she sounded petulant and desperate. "Please." She amended, trying to make her eyes softly seductive. His toughened forearm under her back was making her arch, and he dipped his head to kiss her heart.

"I'll never stop teasing you," he muttered as he nibbled at her. "You can't get your way all the time with me."

His hand spread over the small of her back as he added a twist to his movements, sliding his other hand up her stomach, in between her breasts, to her throat to feel her pulse. "I'm very difficult," he continued, "And as much it scares you, I'm yours to deal with now."

Her body reacted instantly, but her eyes clouded.

"It feels like you're _mine_, right about now," he tried again, arranging his mouth in an easy smile, though his heart twisted at her continued lack of answer. "Don't you feel it?"

She looked up at him with a sudden poignant sorrow that made him furious.

"Don't you look at me like that," he growled, wounded. "This isn't the last time."

She gasped helplessly as he curled a finger around her clit and his increasingly hard thrusts began to build friction and sensation, leading her upwards rapidly towards the fractured, beautiful ecstasy she knew he was bringing her to.

"Doesn't it feel like home?" He said this under his breath, almost sounding like he was making a rhetorical statement, and as his fingers trailed down her collarbone, they paused infinitesimally over her heart, the skin he had just kissed.

Bella tried to break his gaze, wishing she could lie, but he ceased his movements, his finger idle, and sat back slightly on his heels, staring unblinkingly at her.

"Admit it," he said, and again she squirmed against him, trying to create friction. "Admit this is right. You're so stubborn, Bella," he said softly, his hands holding her still.

She struggled slightly, hating this conversation. "Edward- please-"

"Ah-ah," He interrupted with a hiss. "I won't give you what you need until you admit a few things to me."

She groaned. "Edward, you're being cruel." Her body was a trembling violin string of need and aching.

His cheek creased into a wicked smile, and he shrugged. "I'm being cruel to myself as well, in case you haven't noticed."

She had noticed. Every single fibre of his being clearly wanted to press her down and take her. But he was in rigid control. The memory of him losing control at dawn made her muscles clench around him, and his eyelids fluttered momentarily, but he remained obstinately still.

"Did you think about me, when we were apart?" He whispered, and her stomach flipped.

_Yes. Every day.  
_  
He kept looking expectantly at her, dark jade eyes troubled. At her frown, he clarified, "I'm not listening. I'm practicing. I'm trying to stop."

"What does my mind sound like?" She asked, and he wrapped her arms around his neck and rolled back smoothly, settling her on his lap as they sat facing each other.

"You answer my question and I'll answer yours," he replied silkily. She held the eye contact, as difficult as it was.

"Of course I did," she whispered back. When he didn't begin moving, she clarified. "I missed you so badly, that first year was like living in a nightmare. I couldn't sleep. It was too silent. It was like I was talking into an empty room, without you to hear me."

He wrapped his arms around her waist and moved her in lazy circles, humming softly to disguise his inner trembling. She remained eye to eye with him, groaning against his lips, teetering on the edge of exploding, but so delicately balanced.

"Is that nice, my darling?" He said mockingly, his fingers digging into her curves.

"Answer _me_ now." She could barely manage the words. "What do I sound like?"

He tilted her back slightly, changing the angle, and increasing the friction.

"You are afraid," he whispered raggedly, feeling her hips twist harder under his palms, the coiled spring of their combined passion winding harder and tighter.

"But you don't have to be afraid, I promise. You sound like…" Here, he paused as he swallowed.

"Like you're shaking inside… words and images… they're crystal clear when you're sure of something." He began to struggle for oxygen as she braced her arms harder on his shoulders, her airless gasps on his ear almost sending him over.

"But when you're unsure it's all broken and soft," He began lifting her slightly, supporting her body as much as he could, feeling her thigh muscles quivering in exhaustion. "Like now."

She stretched against him, her dark, liquid eyes not leaving his, silently pleading.

"You're afraid I'm not going to need you any more," he said, almost to himself, his voice virtually inaudible in between his harsh breaths. The bed creaked beneath, and the air suddenly condensed from pale yellow to thick honey.

"You're worrying that once Forks doesn't hold us here, I won't want you." He bit her neck and she arched back over his arms, and he watched the blush spread across her breasts, and he knew she was close. "But that's ridiculous, Bella. It will _never_ be less."

She tripped into orgasm so unexpectedly, a sweet, trembling violence that caused her to cry out in shock, and as he fell to pleasure after her, he groaned, "It will always be more."

He was too tired, his arms aching and his breaths coming in heaving acid lungfuls, to notice that she had frozen. He leaned his forehead against her collarbone, kissing the skin in one place over and over.

He gradually opened his eyes, a sharp pinprick of discomfort in his stomach as she stared at him, completely unreadable.

"What is it?" He quickly replayed the last five minutes, wondering what he'd said wrong.

"What did you just say?" Bella whispered. The swirlings of déjà vu, that strange insidious sickness, a feeling of a parallel life, a note passed through the wall from one self to the next, made her stiffen to the point that he pulled away.

"What?" Edward said, a note of defensiveness in his voice as his brow sank slowly into a frown. "It's true. Even if you don't want to hear it."

She was statue-still, searching his eyes, and he was faintly annoyed that everything he offered her, every word on a silver platter, was pushed aside untouched.

He could not hear the panicked whispers of her mind as he focused on a sound outside the room.

Heavy footfalls, instantly recognizable as Emmett's, could be heard coming from some distance above, down the stairs, down the hallway towards them.

Bella could hear him knock on her door down the hallway. "Bella?" Emmett said.  
She heard him wait, and then knock again. "Bella." Firmer this time.

The creak of her bedroom door could be heard, and Emmett's mumbled, "Oh, shit."

He padded closer to Edward's room, grizzly bear paws, and the knock on Edward's door was shocking, sharp, almost painful, and Bella stiffened and clawed at Edward's shoulders.

His pupils contracted to pinpricks. He tried to hold Bella still with his body; his arms both cradling and imprisoning as his eyes begged her to be silent. He wasn't ready to give up this sanctuary now; not when so much had been found. He was afraid that it was too raw, too new, to survive the world outside this room.

"Shhhhh…" he said softly, smoothing a hand down her back.

He said loudly in a remarkably normal, and therefore irritated voice, "I'm still in bed. Go away, Emmett, for fucks sake."

Emmett's voice was hushed as he spoke through the closed door.

"You both need to come upstairs."

It was all he needed to say; the enormity of what was about to happen was conveyed so neatly in six little words.

Bella climbed off Edward's lap and began battling with her inside-out dress, which had somehow knotted itself in half. Edward ran his hand through his hair, the pain in his heart only bearable because finally, he had her. The relief of this was the only thing that could help him traverse the awful, lightless grief that would soon crush his chest, and he was afraid for himself, and more afraid for Carlisle. But as Bella caught his eye, he sat up a little straighter, and felt he somehow could cope.

Emmett said nothing more, but cleared his throat twice, sighed audibly, and his footsteps began to retreat, every step laden with heavy sorrow.

Edward snagged Bella's wrist with his thumb and forefinger as she moved away from the side of the bed, reaching for her bra which was lodged in the bookcase on top of Dante's Inferno.

Her eyes were tearless for once as she looked down at him, he realised. Unusual. He swallowed deeply around the twin feelings of sorrow and joy that blocked his throat. "Let's go and make ma happy."

He did not see Bella's face as she turned away, and she left him sitting in his bedsheets.

She grabbed random clean clothes and ran to the bathroom, past the cell phone whose battery completely died. As the screen let out its last digital gasp, the words that had been on the screen faded to black.

**Bella- I am coming.**

The water scorched her as she leapt frantically into the shower, her mind reeling, and she slid a smooth cake of soap briskly along her skin.

Her hands were shaking so hard it slipped from her grip.

Esme. Edward. Michael.

Her mind could not cope; each unique stress crowded around her until she stood pressed against the tiles, shaking with sobs that produced no tears, and she bent double as futile retching took her over.

Less, or more. The choice was that simple, but she couldn't choose yet; not in the midst of this chaos.

Less, more. She turned the words over and over, like a playing card, King of Clubs, the conqueror. Strange words that should make her happy, but instead, made her insides shake as though she were afraid. She towelled herself roughly and slid into her clothes, twisting her wet hair into a rough bun.

Less….more. What significance were those words to her? She wiped the steam from the mirror, and caught her own reflection, her mouth tasting faintly of scotch, and she brushed her teeth until it was replaced with mint.

She was running up the quicksand stairs, faltering and gasping as she tripped up the last step, stubbing her toe, sending her sprawling into agony on her hands and knees on the fine Persian rug.

She looked up to see Edward standing in Esme's doorway and realised, as the memory of crushed plants and fog swirled, that she remembered now. The clamouring voices inside her crested, chorused, and she understood.

Less, more.

Edward had told her that last night, but not aloud.

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**A/N: Reviewing is like saying it aloud. **

**Thank you again for reading.  
**


	17. Chapter 16: The World With No Walls

**A/N: ****I do not own Twilight, or any of its characters, it all belongs to Stephenie Meyer!**

**Thank you everyone for your continued support. Your patience is appreciated as I pursue each chapter to its lair.  
**

**I got a record number of reviews last chapter. Each was read and treasured.  
**

**Thank you to my beta extraordinaire, bookbag, and thank you Carrie3101 for pre-reading.  
**

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**Chapter Sixteen****: The World With No Walls  
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**I remember a hundred lovely lakes, and recall the fragrant breath of pine and fir and cedar and poplar trees. **

**The trail has strung upon it, as upon a thread of silk, **

**opalescent dawns and saffron sunsets.**

**-Hamlin Garland  
**

Bella was momentarily lost, on her hands and knees on the beautiful swirling lines of the Persian hall rug. Although breathtaking pain twisted up her leg like wire, her stubbed toe was forgotten.

It was as if she had climbed a melting staircase and somehow fallen through the looking glass in her mind, through the vapours and silver smudges, and she was standing on the patio, watching herself kiss Edward last night.

She scratched desperately at the memory, fearing the ghost of déjà vu would slide away and leave her behind, and in this moment she could taste it, smell it. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she willed herself to relive it, her nails scraping at the tiny loops of wool, various shades of charcoal and the chalk beneath her fingers that made up the larger pattern.

She could almost feel Edward's fingers icy tugging softly at the ends of her hair and the way that made her insides flutter. Mist dewing on her cheekbones and lashes, the cold stone beneath her, the grey arctic air above.

She could almost taste the scotch and promise and fate in his mouth.

As she tilted forward into his hands, balanced on that fine edge; she had felt the poignancy of his kiss acutely as his defences crumbled away into the fog and plants underfoot.

Last night, the eloquence of his mouth had made her imagine he was confessing to her his darkest encrypted secrets. Now as the pain ebbed from her foot and her breathing slowed, the truth was in her bones.

_I heard him._

Edward, who had been in Esme's doorway, turned and jolted at Bella's agonized gasp, feeling a sharp shock in his gut when he saw her, small and folded on the floor. She was making no move to stand, and her eyes were closed, her face in an expression that seemed more surprised than pained.

Carlisle appeared behind Edward instantly in the doorway.

"Bella—" Carlisle exclaimed, horrified, and began to move to her. Edward stopped him and strode quickly to her, his mouth grim, his eyes intense and frantically scanning her.

She opened her eyes and saw Edward's bare feet approaching, and tried to scrabble up. His damp hair and crumpled clothing matched her own dishevelled state, and she hoped no one would notice. God knows what they already thought. She felt herself retreat inwardly, hoping he wouldn't hear her, and privately thrilled at the concerned crease in his brow. He wasn't laughing, like he had done when she fell from Esme's bed.

"What's happened?" His tone was slightly sharp to hide his alarm as he knelt beside her, lifted her up more fully onto her knees. "Are you alright?" He examined her face, passed his hand lightly over her hair.

The flash of awareness that passed between them as he caught her eye was palpable, and she ducked her head and stared at the exposed skin of his inner wrist.

"I tripped. Esme- is she-" Bella began awkwardly, her voice breaking slightly and unable to form the dreadful words, but Edward shook his head, making her shudder in relief. He stood and took her hands, pulling her up.

Carlisle shuffled softly to join them, ten years older in a single night. His pallor was both ashen with exhaustion and reddened by grief.

"Esme's taken a turn for the worse overnight, and these last few hours she's started to struggle. We're all just going to sit with her now," Carlisle said, his voice empty, as if he had no air in his lungs. Bella swallowed the choking bubble of anguish and caught at his sleeve, tugged his fingers, and he stroked her hand rhythmically, absently.

Edward watched the movement.

Bella could hear Emmett's low rumbling voice, and Rose's soothing undertones. The air smelled like rain, and like Edward, and Bella trembled lightly as a cool draft smoothed over her dampened skin.

"She's always said she wanted to have the window open when she…" Carlisle broke off, and Bella's throat closed entirely. She could do nothing but stroke the back of his hand with her thumb, and pray for something, anything. Enough strength to carry them all.

She glanced at Edward, who was looking at his father with the odd expression she recognized, although it was usually directed at her. A kind of soft frown coupled with a look in his eyes that made her stomach suddenly twist strangely.

He glanced at her and she averted her eyes quickly, but found herself staring at the side of his neck, her fingers tingling. The urge to touch was almost overpowering; she had to wrench her eyes from him and tuck her hands firmly into her pockets.

So wrong, she told herself harshly. Don't even think about it, especially at a time like this. She was disgusted with herself, and it made tears burn behind her eyes. She felt like she was changing, slipping, and she had an image of herself backing Edward against the wall, taking his thoughts, turning into him.

"Emmett and Rose are just talking with her now. Just… give them a moment?" Carlisle said, his voice fading entirely in his aching throat, before he quickly strode to the bathroom at the end of the hall, the door closing behind him so slowly the creak sounded like a tiny sound of anguish.

Edward combed his fingers through his wet hair. He looked down at her for a long time, his expression deepening into a kind of despair that made her hurt for him. He shifted to face her more squarely, and she mirrored his movement, unconsciously breathing in the scent of his skin.

He doesn't know you've heard him, reminded tiny whisper inside, and she hated herself for feeling a faint thrill at the thought. She hastily focused on his lustrous eyes as he carefully took the hand that Carlisle had released and ran the pad of his thumb along her fingertips.

Edward reached his other hand up to the cream skin of her jaw, cupped it to feel her heart; he promised himself only the quickest of peeks. It was too hard to resist, especially when he felt so vulnerable, so adrift in this strange, awful place of waiting. He just needed a little fix.

He pressed his forehead to hers tenderly, and sighed against her lips.

He frowned at the smooth, glasslike surface of her thoughts, reflecting only his own eyes back to him. "What are you hiding?" he said instantly, and she shook her face free from his hold, her eyes panicked.

"I thought you were going to give me a little privacy," She said quickly, inwardly panicking, unwilling to give up her secret. "That was part of our deal we made, out in the field, remember?" She regretted her harsh tone when he snatched his hand back as if burnt.

"I am. I said I'm going to try," he said, slightly stung, his brow creasing. "It's not easy to just give it up. Aren't we past deals now, anyway?" His voice was growing hard, but his blink gave away his feelings.

Bella was ashamed as she watched Edward curl into himself, his jaw tightening as he instinctively stepped back from her, and she reacted without thought, her heart spilling over and flooding her with urgency. She had glimpsed his depths, and although she knew she had no right to stake a claim, she moved close to him, desperate to soothe the hurt she had caused.

She stood on tiptoe and wrapped her hands around the back of his neck, making him jump slightly.

"I'm sorry, that's not what I meant," she breathed against him, felt him relax and shiver, and lower his head. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." She whispered the words over and over.

She wanted to say more but she didn't know how to frame the words.

I'm sorry we are waiting to say goodbye to that rare, beautiful woman, your mother, my safe harbour.

I'm sorry I made a promise to another man. I've committed crimes against you both.

I'm so, so sorry for bruising your heart just now. And I hate that no one will emerge from this situation unhurt.

In this moment, she wished he was listening.

They rested their temples together again briefly before he pulled back to study her. He slowly slid his arm around her waist, his hand gripping her flesh tight to hide the microscopic tremor in his fingers.

She was touching him. Touching him willingly, touching him first.

The sensation was so foreign to him, so delicious, it made his chest ache. To finally be in her hands was like letting out a long-held breath, and he felt himself yield a little more as he caught the star of light in her eyes as she looked up at him in wonder. Now that she had chosen him, once she trusted him fully she would touch him like this more. The thought was enough to make the bleak landscape of grief a little more bearable, and he was grateful to her.

He focused on the tiny freckle above her eyebrow until he reined in the urge to hear her. It was a skill he was hopelessly ill equipped for, but he found the strength to tune out her delicate notes, her mind's familiar cadence. The fact that she had come to him, touched him, allow him to hold her like this, made the raw burn to hear her less immediate.

To Bella, his flesh was now loaded with something more indescribably fascinating, and in response the tiny hairs on her arms prickled.

At first, the only thing she sensed was the rich thud of his heart in her palms as she leaned against him, and felt his arm wrap around her waist and he hummed soothingly, his hand warm and strong through the fabric.

He thought she wanted comfort from him, she realised, as she smoothed her palm against the roughened hot silk of his neck. How typical of him to try to anticipate her needs.

His other arm rose to press her closer, and she could feel his skin must have still been wet when he had dragged on clothes in haste. He smelt like clean, damp cotton, and as he pressed his stomach more firmly against hers she was distracted enough that she nearly missed it.

She heard the door open behind them, an eerie creak, and as Edward's arms cradled her closer still, she felt something new. A glimmer of something. She clung to him, rising up on tip toe, and as he looked away she pressed her face against the pulse in the base of his throat.

Like the ripples in a lake after a pebble was tossed in, she could feel the strangest echo in her mind; on the blurred cusp of waking and dreaming, reality and fantasy. Just images, the faintest impression. Perhaps her fevered imagination was collaborating with her subconscious, but still, like frames of a film, she saw, felt…

Carlisle… a strange, dark conviction, the need to protect him, a promise. Carlisle, losing his half, wrenching sympathy, terror of what that would be like. Unlivable.

Before she could pursue the fractured pieces, which faded like smoke, Carlisle halted next to them. "It's alright, kids," he said softly, and from her vantage point behind Edward's bicep Bella could see he had been crying. And that he had never stopped; probably would never stop.

"She's happy. She's as comfortable as we can make her." Carlisle managed a smile as he said this, and squared his shoulders as best he could. He stepped close, wrapping an arm around each of them, and pressed kisses to their foreheads; Bella's first, and then Edward's. The wave of sorrow was intense, and she dropped her hand from Edward's nape. She looked up at Edward, who was exchanging a look of such soundless sadness with Carlisle over the top of her head that she felt like she was trespassing.

"Come now," Carlisle said finally, releasing them both. "Come say hello to her."

As they followed him to the end of the hall, the word he had left unsaid lingered in the air before drifting away.

Emmett was just rising from the edge of the bed as they stepped through into the soft green glow, with Rose rubbing soothing circles on his back. As he turned to them, he wore the salted stripes on his cheeks with no embarrassment. His hand lingered on Esme's and he stood bent over her, unwilling to release her. Rose was attempting to smile, despite her reddened eyes and spiked eyelashes, and they both let out shaky sighs in unison.

"Would you like us to leave?" Emmett said awkwardly to Edward, who shook his head and put his hand on his brother's forearm for a moment.

There was a changing of the guard as Emmett and Rose moved aside to stand beside the open window, the breeze fragrant with the sweet scent of distant rain. The sun should have been directly overhead, but it seemed completely absent from the sky, smothered in cloud.

Rose wrapped her arms around Emmett as best she could, with their baby conspicuously between them. Her dearest wish would not come true. She turned her face to the window, her blue eyes brimming with tears which she finally allowed to soak into Emmett's sleeve.

Edward slowly sat on the side of the bed, and turned his head slightly until Bella realised what he wanted. She crept forward from against the wall and stood beside him. Wordlessly, he wrapped his arm around her thighs.

Esme lay like a broken, faded doll, but as ever, she was beautiful, because they loved her. Each breath she took was bravery, and although her eyes were closed, Edward sensed a kind of awareness; like she was a small child feigning sleep. There was no doubt in him she was still present, and he held Bella tighter.

Edward lifted his hand to tenderly stroke Esme's fragile cheek, making his fingers as gentle as hers had been when he was born.

He did not see her sunken cheeks or her bleached colours. Her true image, her eternal loveliness, overlaid her face like a photo negative.

"Ma, Bella and I have some nice news." He stroked the backs of Esme's hands, not seeing the translucence, the veins like ink. He only saw the same firm, cool hand that had pressed against his forehead when he lay sick in bed, thousands of nights ago.

Bella began to fall inside.

"Bella and I have found each other, Ma." Edward heard the note of pride in his own voice, how right that sounded, and he lowered his voice confidentially, giving Bella a squeeze. "You were right. She was walking to me."

The room went very still, and they all looked to Esme. The silence shivered taut.

Instinctively, everyone held their breath in order to hear hers, and when it at last came in a shuddering sigh, Edward knew she had understood somehow.

"She's mine now," he whispered, cupping Esme's cheeks reverently, dropping one kiss, then two, on her brow. "And I'm hers. She's chosen me."

Had he known a few days ago that he would be saying these words to his mother, and that they would be said in truth rather than his desperate fantasy, he would have dropped to his knees in that wet, foggy field.

"Say hello to Ma, Bella," Edward said, noticing her awkward silence, as always trying to draw her out of her shell. He turned to press his lips against the side of her neck, and hugged her closer, his hot breath humid on her skin. "Tell her that you've come to me at last."

Rose and Carlisle exchanged worried looks as the three lingered by the window, attempting to give Bella and Edward a little privacy. Edward's desperation for Bella to reassure him was apparent; the muscles on his arm stood out as he tugged her closer; his eyes half closing as he kissed her. Bella's body language was unsure and cornered, although she still turned her body to him as she sat on his thigh, her toes barely touching the ground. Emmett turned to the window, casting a shadow across the bed.

Bella hesitated, opening her mouth, and there was nothing she could say. She felt trapped and terrified as the weight of his arm tightened around her.  
I was chosen by someone else, it's all too late, she thought helplessly, and she tried to smile bravely as she formulated her response.

Esme's eyelids fluttered slightly and Bella froze. She spoke before realizing what she was saying.

"I won't be alone, once you're gone," Bella said, surprised by how definite her voice sounded. "He'll look after me. And I'll look after him for you. I promise."

Edward and Esme let out a breath almost in unison, and the room fell silent once more.

Bella's breath was held in her chest. This was too much, too fast, and she inexplicably imagined the kitchen of her apartment; the vase of oriental lilies she always kept on the bench.

A sudden wave of homesickness swept her, and the guilt was almost more than she could bear; in every direction, it crowded down onto her. The thought that she was going to cause this damage was inconceivable.

The fact there was even a choice was something she couldn't come to terms with. She had arrived in this place with a ring on her hand, and now she soon would be asked decide how the rest of her life would play out. Should Edward decide to keep her, once the novelty wore off. Maybe now that he had finally caught her, the drive inside him would fade.

What would life with Edward be like? Would she even have a roof over her head- where _did_ he live, anyway? Would she spend her life following him, under the sky forever? She liked her little home, her comforts, things she was sure he would scorn. An apartment almost seemed too bizarrely commonplace for someone like him. He lived out of a bag. He didn't care for material possessions. She wasn't like him; she couldn't survive purely on sunlight, airline food and strange pillows.

The alternative- being bound to cement walls and insulated by her own possessions and clutter, Michael reading a newspaper beside her, while Edward walked the Earth without her… Sudden bittersweet despair washed through her heart.

Edward's hand had slipped to Bella's inner arm of its own volition, and he heard her thought before he could pull the mental shutter of privacy down.

_I love you so much, too much, I always have, I ache from this love. Your love has defined my life. I can't live without you, but I can't see how I can keep you…_

He pulled away his hand and examined her face, her brown eyes that were on Esme's face, but they seemed faraway, unseeing.

"She knows how much you love her," Edward said quietly, and felt Bella stiffen on his lap. Her cheeks burned, and he felt ashamed that he had eavesdropped.

They both leaned forward together, Bella kissing Esme's cheek slowly, silently thanking her. "I do love you," she said as quietly as she could against her cheek.  
"I love you. Thank you for raising me. Thank you for keeping my own mother alive."

She glanced sideways at Edward, who caught her eye. His own were clear, tearless, and as she raised the back of her hand to her cheek out of habit, she realised there were no tears of her own to wipe away. She briefly wondered how many deaths he had seen, and she stared at his profile as he looked back at Esme, his face so tender it coaxed the first, and only, tear to slide down her cheek.

Carlisle was beginning to hover anxiously, twisting his wedding ring, and Bella suddenly realised how shallow Esme's breaths had become. She stood slowly and took Edward's wrist, tugging him slightly.

They looked down at Esme, each kissed her brow, and let her go.

"Do you want a moment alone, dad?" Edward asked softly, and Carlisle silently nodded. The four shuffled out silently, and in the darkened hallway, Rose clung to Bella, Edward was enfolded by Emmett.

Carlisle surveyed Esme, touched her pulse, and felt the pull of her presence weakening. Her thread, as she called it. She was leaving soon, he could feel it.

The air swirled around them, and as a doctor he wanted to close that window. As a husband, he wanted to be that wind, to be in those last precious lungfuls. She didn't feel overly cold as he touched her cheek, but regardless he bowed over her, sheltering her from the worst of the chill.

He picked up her hand and held the ring he had slid onto her finger so many years before.

"I've loved you since the moment I felt you, sitting next to me, glowing like a lamp," he told her quietly. "I've loved you, and only you, since the moment I realised you existed in this world."

He softly twisted the ring, an old habit, and felt the tremor under her skin. He dropped his mouth to hers, tasting only the coffee he had drunk as he sat opposite her in the crowded coffee house, too overwhelmed by her colours to do anything more than stare, feeling suddenly like his helpless, young, naïve self. Terror gripped him. The life alone, before her, had prepared him for her. Nothing had prepared him for life _after_ her.

She had systematically stripped him of his cardboard-cutout beliefs and replaced them with something stronger; something bigger than himself. He had learned more in that moment in the coffee house than he had in his entire education, his long career. She was his life's education. He couldn't look at that girl then, this fading woman now, and think her only tissue and blood layered upon bone.

She had taught him that nothing could alter the path of a soul, and he could imagine in his mind's eye the trail she would soon walk, away from him, away from the earth and green that she loved so much. He imagined her, a little balloon, tied to him by a spider's silken thread, reaching towards the breeze, eager to float.

"My body lives without you," he whispered, "But the heart of me, all that I am, will go with you."

In that instant he hated his body, hated being chained to the ground, trapped and tied in this room. It seemed so unnatural that she should depart on her journey alone, her little holiday as she had sometimes quietly laughed, and as he rested his cheek against hers and felt the light fading, he prayed, at first silently, but soon the words fell from his lips and were captured in his tears.

Carlisle hadn't been in a church since his wedding day, but his prayers were his own version of worship; her name, his love.

He prayed to find her again, and it was Edward's words he unconsciously echoed as he eased up to brace his hands either side of her face, and watched the spark fade, felt his own flame flicker.

"Walk back to me, some day."

And it was there that Edward, Emmett, Bella and Rose found Carlisle, arced and frozen in the most ancient, primal grief. The soft wind ruffled the curtains like medieval flags.

Gently, softly, the threads had been unraveled and Esme was spirited away from them, to float to the land where pain could not find her, where time could not limit her.

Back to the world with no walls.

The kitchen table was lit only by the single bulb directly above it. The rest of the room blended away into purple shadows, and the low moon was visible through the window.

Emmett and Rose sat with their hands cupping earthenware mugs of coffee. Bella downed her fifth glass of wine, more sober than she had ever been. They had spoken little in the hours since the sun had slipped down behind the horizon.

Emmett had eventually gotten up to silently make plates of grilled cheese on thick, grainy toast, and as Bella took her first bite, Edward re-entered the room, still barefoot.

"He's OK," he said, clearing his throat slightly. "He wants to sleep next to her tonight, in the arm chair, and I can't see why not." He paused, clearly unused to having a role of authority, and he glanced quickly at Bella.

"I've called the… Funeral place. They're coming in the morning." He leaned against the doorframe, clearly exhausted.

"Sit down," she said as she slipped off her stool and reached out her fingers to him.

"I'll make you some coffee."

"I'd rather a scotch," he muttered tiredly, linking his fingertips with hers. Bella frowned at him.

"You're having a break from that stuff," she said as she pulled him onto the stool beside hers, and handed him a piece of toast. She went and busied herself with making coffee, grateful to have something to do with her hands other than twirl her wine glass.

Rose laid her head down on her arms and sighed.

"I really wanted for her to be able to see the baby," she finally said and Bella looked up at the kitchen window and caught her own expression of pain in the reflection.

"Oh, sweetheart," said Emmett. "That little pudding just isn't cooked yet."

Bella rinsed a spoon, wondering how such a big, craggy man could have so much sweetness in him.

Emmett cleared his throat awkwardly. "What are we going to do about dad, Edward?" He said, suddenly unsure. "Rose and I can't stay; when the baby comes, we need to be at our own hospital- the nursery's all set up…" He trailed off, and Rose rubbed his knuckles slowly.

"Bella and I can take care of him," Edward said slowly, and Bella paused with her back to them, her spoonful of sugar trembling slightly en route from the jar to Edward's mug.

"I'll call my agent to say I'm taking time off." Edward said, accepting the mug of coffee from Bella, raising his eyebrows in thanks. He absently pulled her close to stand between his spread knees as he traced imaginary plans with his finger on the surface of the tabletop. "You can get more time off, right?" Edward said to Bella, noticing her lack of answer, and pushed her back slightly so he could see her face.

The light was in his eyes, and he couldn't quite make out the expression on her face. He began to slide his hand across the fabric clinging to her waist to seek out her skin, but stopped himself.

She said no more as they sat at the table, and the frustration began to build again inside him; the same urge to chase and he wondered if she was slipping away, if that was why he needed to follow. He almost felt despair in that moment, because he was so tired, and something wasn't right. The sadness in her eyes was more marked when she looked at him.

*o*o*o*o*o*o

They all trooped upstairs, and Emmett halted Edward with a hand on his arm. "I'll check on dad. You go to bed. You've done enough." He took Rose by the hand and led her towards the second flight of stairs, his thick forearm supporting the small of her back as she walked gingerly. She hadn't mentioned her feet were tender and swollen, but Emmett knew, and he lead her onwards and upwards, wincing in sympathy with each step she took.

Bella brushed her teeth in silence, giving her face a cursory splash with cold water. The house throbbed with the silent grief of its survivors. Edward remained behind her, leaning against the doorframe, fiddling idly with the old fashioned light cord hanging from the ceiling.

Bella faltered as she caught his eye, and sat on the edge of the bath, pulling a brush through her hair as he scrubbed his own teeth and winced at his stubbled, weary expression. "I look like shit," he muttered, and as he turned to her, she shook her head.

He was more gorgeous than ever. He wore responsibility well. He took the brush from her hand and began to tame her tangled brown strands. He seemed to enjoy this task, and he hummed softly as he pressed the bristles gently against her scalp.

She thought for the hundredth time that night of how he thought she had chosen. The wine suddenly making her woozy. For him, it was now a closed matter: she was his. How ever long that would last until he got bored of her.

He took her hand and when she paused in front of her bedroom door, he looked genuinely puzzled. "That's never really been your room," he said, gently passing the warmth of his palm from her temple, to jaw, to neck. "Come to bed."

Bella allowed herself to be drawn along the jet black hallway, towards the door she could count the steps to. And as he pulled off her clothes and dressed her in his own warm, soft t shirt, engulfing her with his luscious scent, she passed her hands over his skin.

She told herself that she was stroking him to comfort him, but the words rang false in her mind, and she knew with sickening clarity that she could become addicted to pressing her ear up to the keyhole.

He crawled onto the bed after her and pressed her down gently, weighted by weariness. They sank into the echoing space of grief and comfort, desperation and mortality as she felt his breathing fracture into the wracking gasps of the bereaved. She ran her hands up his bare back, attuning her mind, closing her eyes to concentrate. It was no use; she was too tired, her head spinning. He had never told her the way to do it, and she felt underhanded and cruel to be trying this at his worst moment. She knew she only had limited time until he realised what she was doing.

She had no idea if he would welcome this, or retreat from her. For so long they had been on opposite sides of the mirror. Now that she had climbed through to him, she had no way of telling if he would handle this without the thin pane of silver glass between them.

She just held him, and as his tears slowly soaked her neck, she started to drift down deeper into sleep.

She felt his breathing steady and slow, and he began to follow her down the same path.

But before she slid under, she heard the faintest plea, a cry for help, unease. A terrified and exposed mayday, his mind's husky shiver almost masking it.

Three words. Small words with huge implications. Words she would not be able to give an answer to should he say them out loud, face to face.

_Stay with me._

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**A/N: Reviewers get a hug from a slightly damp Curseward.  
I think we might have a visitor next chapter.**

**Also, I'm finally on Twitter (link on my profile) if you are interested in seeing how socially awkward I can be in 140 characters or less. (Clue: Very)**


	18. Chapter 17: Green Eyed Monster

**A/N: I do not own Twilight, or any of its characters, it all belongs to Stephenie Meyer!**

**Thank you**** to my girls bookbag and carrie3101.**

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**Chapter Seventeen: Green Eyed Monster**

Michael was lost. Really, _really_ lost, and starting to get pissed off. He'd been driving around these identical roads for the better part of an hour. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly it squeaked, and the line between his brows deepened.

This goddamn place just did not want to be found.

He was winding his way through living walls of the wettest, darkest green he'd ever seen, and though he didn't consciously realise it, he'd always hated this colour. As a child, he had never used his Forest Green crayon; it had remained pristine and sharp. His trees had been stylised and silver. Now here he was, coloured in by ragged waxen strokes of forest, the gaps filled in untidily with black.

Every serpentine twist in the road was bringing Michael deeper towards somewhere he truthfully did not want to go, and to a place that clearly did not want him.

He had cheated death at least half a dozen times, navigating these slick corkscrew roads that seemed to be trying to catapult him into the trees. He was exhausted from concentrating and his forearms ached from overcorrecting his steering. Every corner brought a sense of déjà vu, and he grew increasingly disoriented. He began trying to memorise unusual tree trunks or any landmarks to get his bearings.

He consulted the GPS, which was not instilling much confidence in him.

It recalculated the route, clearly buying itself some time. It rather hesitantly suggested right, though that almost seemed like a guess. Michael grudgingly obeyed, though he had his doubts. This way seemed wrong. Even the clock on the dashboard seemed wrong. He thought to recheck his Blackberry; maybe he had incorrectly entered the address.

He idled the car on the side of the road. It was a slightly scratched rental car that smelt like carpet cleaner and the sick children of motorists past. The tinny British accent announced in a definite tone that he had reached his destination.

Disgusted, he switched it off.

He turned to look out the window.

A logging truck materialised and flashed past close enough to make him suck in his breath, a blur of wood and wheels. It vanished, curiously soundless, leaving twirling strips of bark in its wake. Michael decided he wouldn't like to own any furniture made of warped, wild trees like these. He'd stick with tame, blond Scandinavian furniture.

He squinted through his rimless glasses; all he could see were ferns and trees that seemed so much more sinister than anything he was used to. This forest just _screamed_ shallow grave.

Michael snorted. He was clearly delirious with tiredness and stress to be imagining this forest was homicidal and simultaneously pondering home furnishings. Resigned to his hopelessly lost status, he turned off the ignition and tried to sip the pale lukewarm coffee that he had bought at the airport an eternity ago.

He wound down the window to breathe the wet air that smelled like decaying plant matter. He could hear insects, and some thunder growling in the distance. He remembered that Bella once said it rained constantly here. This forest wouldn't be out of place on the sea floor, Michael thought as he surveyed the black, softened trunks with distaste.

Who would have thought hell would be so _green_, he thought to himself sourly.

As he sat, he almost felt like he was being watched.

His stomach was gnawed by nerves and he wondered briefly why he felt a sense of foreboding. Something wasn't right. He advertised himself to be a man of reason and evidence-based decision making, but secretly he relied on his gut instinct more than anyone knew. He tried Bella's cell phone again; it was turned off.

There's a shock, he thought, exhaling crossly and tipping his coffee out the window. He wasn't even bothering to leave a message by now.

He was at the point of feeling irritated by her, even though on a rational level he understood she was dealing with a lot. On an emotional level, he wanted to attach her fully charged cell phone to her wrist with duct tape. He'd been trying to contact her over the past few days and with each missed call, his anxiety grew.

It was like she'd dropped off the face of the Earth. He stared at his Blackberry as if waiting for a sign, and tried to ignore the eleven emails he'd received since he last checked his inbox in the line for the rental car.

As if on cue, the last signal bar dropped out, and he laid it down with a weary sigh. A movement out the corner of his eye made him jump, but it was nothing. Just a branch.

He knew he'd been a complete ass the last time he saw Bella, when she said goodbye to him at the office. He had seen her face as she backed away, her pinched brow and eyes filling with tears, and he could see how much he had hurt her.

And he would have to wear that.

But he'd panicked as she'd hovered in his doorway; his colleague was walking up behind her, and would rib him for days about being in bed with a reporter. This same guy was competing with him for the upcoming promotion and wouldn't hesitate to do whatever it took to gain advantage.

No excuse to dismiss her like that, he told himself, rubbing his square jaw, wincing at the dry sandpaper stubble. He'd be a terrible husband at this rate. He had a moment of clarity as he pondered this; what sort of man was he? He'd chosen to be decent to a colleague, but be insensitive and cruel to his fiancée? Michael's stomach felt sick, and it wasn't the coffee.

What he'd really wanted to say in that moment she'd stood in the doorway, but knew he had no right, was to ask her not to go. And as he'd watched her car weave out of the parking lot below his window, he'd wondered if she would, or could, come back.

He didn't know how to voice these irrational feelings. He instinctively knew that something bad had happened to Bella here, and for that reason, he harboured resentment and suspicion towards this place.

A trauma was the only explanation for the way Bella was. She was unwilling to accept simple affection. She was often clingy, but then snapped into an icy aloofness. Her need for privacy was something that he'd learnt quickly to adapt to, and he never entered her study, not even to vacuum it.

And he'd always recognized something inside her that he could not access. His first impression of her was her _separateness_, and it had intrigued him. She sat in the court room, surrounded by people, yet remained so distinctly untouchable and closed off, she may as well have been in a glass case.

He'd deliberately made eye contact with her, and instead of smiling back like another woman might have, she'd looked straight through him, and then away. It was like she couldn't even see him. It had fired his blood, and suddenly the rows of identical society belles and sleek, polished lawyers he was obliged to socialise with for work were like pennies in a fountain. Now he'd seen that flash of something rare in the water, there was no way he'd settle for anything less. Bella looked at him as though she couldn't care less about his reputation, the car he drove or the promotion he was in line for.

He had buzzed with anticipation on his court days. Every time she'd looked away, he wanted her more. The thought of her taking notes during his cases was enough to make him wake in a sweat. He won more cases. He got promoted. His suit got a little more expensive.

She was like his legal muse, he thought to himself sardonically.

He had pursued her patiently for months, hoping to decode her. He'd always loved a good mystery. Every time she turned him down or escaped the conversation, he had only doubled his resolve to win her. He was nothing if not persistent, and when she'd eventually agreed to go to dinner with him, the victory had made him dizzy.

She never knew it, but he had fallen in love with her the moment she had seen through him. If Michael had ever spent some time on the therapist's couch, which he hadn't, something might have been made of that.

She had jumped out of her skin when he had touched her during their first year of dating and sometimes she still did. She had all the signs of some kind of suffering, and something or someone from her past lived with them like a spectre. Suddenly, her standoffish coldness made sense, and he spent more time piecing her together than any case he'd worked on.

Sometimes, she'd stop dead in her tracks on the sidewalk, then let out a strangled breath. Michael had always catalogued the men walking past, trying to find commonalities with no success.

Whoever she thought she glimpsed, it must have been the same invisible person who walked between them, slept alongside her, gave her those dreams.

But she spoke of her surrogate parents so fondly, and was more easy and natural around Emmett and Rose than anyone else. Michael had asked her once, flat out, if her father had ever done something to her, but Bella had just shaken her head and said flatly that she had not seen her father enough when she was growing up for anything like that to happen.

The name she never spoke was Edward. Michael wasn't a fool. She was raised with Edward, was essentially his sister, and yet she _never_ spoke his name.

There were no photographs of him in the pewter frames she lined up so carefully. His name wasn't on her birthday calendar, and she wrote him no Christmas card in her lovely script. His absence was conspicuous, and as time passed, to Michael it seemed like Edward's name was the silent scream echoing off the walls.

When Emmett and Rose stayed with them last year, Emmett had mentioned Edward's travels in the Middle East; how he was in a dangerous area and they were worried about the timing for him being there.

Michael had seen how white she had turned. Not just pale, but as white as a corpse. The table's flickering white candles had not even reflected in her flat, opaque eyes. In that second, she looked like she had died.

Although she had recovered instantly and changed the subject smoothly, and her slowly burning cheeks were proof of some ongoing heartbeat, Michael's sharp cornflower eyes missed nothing.

He had seen how she had leaned forward, her fingers trembling on her wine glass, her pupils darkening, her lips trembling. Her body tried to tug her towards the conversation as quickly as her mind protected itself.

Michael didn't like it. Now, he needed to know more too. He'd woven Edward's exhibition into the conversation he'd had with her a few days ago, to test her response, but he couldn't see her face to adequately gauge her reaction. He knew better than anyone that she wore a mask that rarely slipped.

He hoped she hadn't retreated out of reach, though he felt she had slipped away a long time ago.

In the past few months, as Esme deteriorated, Bella had too in her own way. Perhaps because she knew she would have to return there soon. It had begun with the dreams. She'd rolled around restlessly at night, mumbling nonsensically, sometimes reaching out. She would dream with her eyes open. Her hands clawed at the blankets, pulling them, kicking them off her. Her pillow would grow wet from her tears.

Michael had jolted awake in an endless loop until he'd been a wreck during a particularly complex fraud case that he needed to be sharp for. His mind, smudged by exhaustion, refused to hold onto details. He went into work earlier and earlier. Their sex life became non existent.

One particular night, Michael was practically electrocuted into waking, automatically reaching for the nine-iron he leant against the chest of drawers. Bella had been sitting upright, gasping as if she were in pain. He'd laid her stiff, sweaty body down, and in desperation, he'd gone into the spare room and fallen face down onto the thin mattress.

He had slept gloriously, the sleep of a cherub on a cloud.

And whilst it was temporary, and he and Bella never spoke of it, he just continued to sleep there each night. He wasn't proud of himself; he knew he had taken the easy option when he should have been there for her. The first of many times, he told himself viciously. He'd told himself it was just until this phase was over.

He'd tried to draw her out on the subject, but she avoided the topic of Forks like the plague, so he knew that's what was worrying her. He'd encouraged her to talk to Angela about her nightmares, but she had seemed genuinely puzzled. She never remembered them by morning. Her subconscious, bound and gagged during the day, was staging some kind of pagan ritual by night.

Michael had hated watching her start to slip away. The diamond ring, which he'd kept hidden behind a legal dictionary in his study for months, became his symbol of hope, the only material thing he could hope to tether her with, to stop her drifting off. And though it was terribly territorial, he'd wanted that ring on her hand before she left for this place. The fact that she'd accepted his proposal had been a miracle in itself; and she'd seemed…. Relieved.

A cruel voice inside Michael whispered _resigned._

He could see a car approaching in the distance. It indicated and slowed only a few yards up the road. Was it performing a U-Turn? No, it seemed to be heading directly into the forest. He was just sitting upright in alarm but the car slipped into the ferns, and he could have slapped himself for two reasons.

He had been parked almost at the top of the Cullen drive.

And that was a funeral home car. Esme had died, and his timing couldn't have been worse.

He glanced into the rear view, and pondered for some time the choice he had.

Return and check into the hotel to wait, to try to ring her phone again and again, to search the telephone directory for a home number for the Cullens. Then try to get Bella on the line and talk her into meeting him in town.

Or, he could drive onwards into an uncertain reception. He drummed the steering wheel, glanced at his watch repeatedly, looked over his shoulder and put his hand on the keys. He groaned in exasperation; this kind of dilemma was the worst kind.

Finally, he decided. He wasn't going to take any more easy options. Bella needed him now. He was not under any illusions that he would be welcome at a time like this, but he needed to see her, to show her that he had made the effort to support her, albeit too little, too late.

He had to tell her something, too. He'd need to pick his timing; the last thing she needed was for him to upset her now. But he couldn't keep it to himself any longer; once she returned home, she'd hear about it. He had a moment of panic. What if she was _avoiding _his calls, had already heard from someone else? He needed to explain this in person. If she'd heard, he would just have to hope he would have a chance to explain. He was a _terrible_ husband. He turned the key and drove his car into the still-swaying ferns, winced as he heard the tendrils scratch and claw at the bumper bar.

He drove down the long road to the tiny grey square that gradually grew into a… Mansion? Manor? More like a castle. That house seemed fortified, like it was able to withstand an invasion. He assessed the grounds as he drove in. Everything was well maintained, so they were clearly old money.

Michael parked the car carefully and as he nervously polished his glasses on the edge of his polo shirt, he decided he would use this opportunity to do what he did best.

Analyse the evidence. Work out who had committed a crime against Bella, though he already had a fair idea.

Then, just maybe, he'd stop paying for the sins of another man.

*o*o*o*o*o*o

Bella opened her eyes and instantly knew Edward was gone, before her eyes could even focus, before she turned her head. If he was here, she would feel his weight. During the night, he'd wrapped himself around her, as if sheltering her from harsh elements, although in reality she had been his safe harbour that night.

She could not deny it had been the most divine sleep, and she'd dreamt of orchards and sky. The press of his muscle and his breath in her hair had stopped her mind's incessant spinning, and for those short hours she had been able to rest, right down to her bones.

The t shirt he had dressed her in had twisted up embarrassingly around her ribs and she tugged it down over her black briefs to where it reached mid thigh. She began rubbing her eyes with her palms and yawning, the first chime of anxiety ringing high and bitter in her stomach.

Today meant picking up the pieces.

Edward had pulled open the window before he left and the distant thunder she could hear was perfuming the air. She crawled across yards of tangled sheets and walked to the window, leaning out, resting against the sill on her forearms and breathing deep. The air balanced her a little, and the sharp frightened pain subsided a little.

Her eyes began to adjust to the light and through her tangled hair, the first thing she noticed was how still everything was. There was not a breath of wind. The tree below usually shimmered olive and platinum, and rustled like parchment pages. Now it stood frozen.

Each of Carlisle's flowers stood like matte coloured buttons sewn into the garden. The forests beyond were the familiar, comforting scribble that seemed to keep the world at bay, and her eyes were always drawn to the line where the raw black trunks stabbed into the lush grass.

Each blade stood, seemingly facing one direction, like a crowd. What they were watching, she could not say.

The sky was arsenic.

Worlds converged here, Bella thought abstractly. So green, so grey. Ireland meets Transylvania.

She tilted her head. The chalky stripe that was the road, from this vantage, curved like a question mark.

Bella turned away abruptly before her mind could follow that train of thought.

The bedroom door swung open hard, and Edward walked in with his head completely obscured by a towel. He was wet and naked, bar a second white towel that was clinging determinedly to his sharp hipbones. He was drying his hair roughly and muttering to himself.

When he finally emerged and saw Bella standing by the window, he smiled with the rare crinkling at the corners of his eyes; lines seen once for every twenty of his scowls. Those smile lines made her feel like she'd won a prize, or stepped off a ledge, and again she wondered how she could have become entangled with someone so otherworldly, when she was so plain.

"Hi, beautiful," he said, giving her chin a stroke, and crossed to sit at his desk. Steam rose from his shoulders and her mouth went instantly dry. He lounged back, stretching until Bella heard his bones cracking, and he relaxed slowly with a groan. The muscles in his chest and stomach did things to her hormone levels.

She moved to sit on the end of the bed, needing a little distance and as she walked, he turned in his seat, following her movement instinctively.

They sat for a long time, staring at each other. She realised belatedly she was wearing no pants and felt awkward, and pressed her knees together.

Her own prickle of self awareness faded as she became distracted by his exceptional architecture. Her eyes began to follow an imaginary line that ran from the corner of his jaw. Down the side of his neck, she remembered what it felt like to press her face there. The line, maybe more of a wire, tied itself around his collarbone, provided the tension that allowed his muscles to cling so perfectly.

His upper arm was a rounded muscle that begged to be bitten. She followed a blue vein down his inner arm and was momentarily sidetracked by the light hair that trailed downwards on his stomach. She hurriedly diverted her eyes back to the safer area of his wrist; such an interesting construction of bone and tendon.

He had so much bare skin. Everywhere. All wet. Long, long legs in such gorgeous, crooked angles. It made her fingers itch. Perhaps she would just try one more time, allow herself one more glimpse. It would be her last; it could sustain her.

The need to understand him, and in what way she was tangled up in his consciousness, was overwhelming. If she could just ask him how he felt about her, and know the truth without any of his cryptic wordplay, she could be satisfied. She would be more able to cope when this eventually ended. She didn't want to always regret that she hadn't tried harder.

Bella realised she was gripping the quilt on either side of her thigh. She lingered momentarily on the tight fold of towel on his hip. Her eyes then climbed the ladder of stitches of their own accord, presumably with the intention of setting up base camp on his seventh rib.

She mentally slapped herself and forced her eyes back to his face. And saw his eyes.

She felt an affinity with his intense, black expression as he studied the white flesh of her thigh. She realised with a terrible fascination that she recognized the particular brand of desperation that glowed through his eyes, the urge that caused his teeth to press into his bottom lip a little, tightened the muscles in his fingers even as he slouched so nonchalantly.

She knew she had been looking at him with the exact same expression. As always, Edward was the mirror that she used to decipher herself.

It was more than lust. It was more complex than addiction.

It was the constant ache to return.

As she watched his kaleidoscope eyes shift from aching into possessiveness, her skin blossomed into heat. The way he looked at her was a burn. Viking eyes watching the burning hillsides of Normandy. Take, own, conquer. This look was in stark contrast to the man who had dropped a tear onto her cheek as he braced over her, shaking with the heat of his passion; the man who could touch his dying mother's cheek with such tenderness.

Knowing him so well, and understanding the innate duality of his nature, she was not surprised to see the animalistic hunger in his eyes as his eyes slid down her leg, making her toes curl.

"Are you OK?" She managed finally, making a stab at normalcy, the roughness of her throat making her voice raspy. If she didn't speak now, she was afraid of what she might do. She could almost taste his mouth.

His mouth twisted as he reluctantly dragged his eyes from her with a visible effort. He blinked, and his eyes changed from black opal lust to their regular faceted green. He looked out the window, his jaw scruffy with stubble. For the first time, she truly empathized with him, the tight leash he kept on himself. She stole another quick glance at his neck; beads of water clung to his skin.

He nodded, gusted a sigh, and returned his eyes to hers, slouching lower in his seat, the towel gripping him tighter.

"Thanks for last night," he said. "It can't have been fun." He looked at her candidly, completely unselfconscious, and she almost wondered if she had imagined the way he had clung to her, her body absorbing his tremors, the slide of his tears against her neck.

"I'm glad I was here," she said, tucking the tips of her fingers under her bare thighs. "What can I do now? I could go downstairs and do some laundry." She would spend the day down there, she thought to herself, aware of her cowardice. It would give her some time to think, to process. She could decrease and untangle the clothes, and in turn, her feelings.

"Just you being here is enough," he said through a yawn, and he began lazily rubbing the scar on his side with one hand, scratching his hair into some kind of order with the other. "You're not a cleaning lady."

"I'd like to contribute," she began, but he shushed her impatiently.

"You're always trying to prove how much you deserve to be here," he said pointedly. "Ever since we were kids. You were like our six year old butler for a while there. Just…. Stop. You don't need to. This is your home, as much as it is mine. Don't clean it, Cinderella. Live in it."

She knew his observation was astute and she squirmed awkwardly. "I just need to feel useful," she said. "I want to take care of you all."

"You are. You're looking after me, remember?" He echoed the words she had spoken to Esme, and she smiled faintly.

"You'd be a full time job." She said, almost to herself.

"You're hired," he fired back, deadpan. "You're more than qualified." He was rewarded by the smile she attempted to hide as she ducked her head. His heart, weighted by sorrow, was kept afloat by the dimple in her cheek as she swung her hair away and looked at him, directly and clearly, amusement pinkening her cheeks.

Okay, this is okay, he thought to himself, allowing himself to relax imperceptibly. She's here, she's not pulling away. I imagined that last night. He loved how she swung her small feet against the mattress, and he patted his knee.

"I'll put you to work at once. First item on the agenda…. Good morning kiss." He smiled wolfishly and tilted his head.

"How unprofessional." She scolded him softly. "If I'm going to be your nanny, there's going to be none of that."

"You're no fun." He sighed and glanced out the window again. For once, he felt the press of time on the edges of his consciousness.

"The...um… funeral... person should be here soon. We don't actually have a lot to organize. Ma left some pretty detailed plans. You know her. She couldn't resist organizing one last party." At that, his eyes glowed and he smiled again, the creases reappearing, making Bella's stomach flip, even as the fresh pain of a world without Esme washed through her.

"Rose made a lot of calls last night, and arranged most of it. I just checked in with dad; he's okay. He's downstairs with her and Emmett. God, he's just so tired."

Edward's tired, thought Bella.

"I've told him that we're going to stay with him for a while." At her desperate look, he hastened, "You're going to, right?" He sat forward, rested his elbows on his knees.

"We need to do some talking, Edward," Bella paused, waiting for his flash of petulant temper and surprised when none came.

"Well, here I am," he said, sitting back, waving his hand for her to continue. "I'm all yours. Let's talk."

She furrowed her brow, trying to think of how to phrase this. She looked up at the ceiling.

"Say it," he said, perhaps a little too sharply.

"I can't just…. Give up my life." Her eyes beseeched him and her shoulders fell a little in defeat. "There's so much you haven't considered."

Edward swivelled himself side to side in his chair as his mind began to strategize. "I'm sure they can spare you for a few more weeks. Just take leave without pay. I've got enough cash for both of us." He paused. "I think. I don't keep track."

At her dubious look, he began laughing and closed his eyes. "I know, I'm hopeless. My accountant rings me every now and then, and either gives me very good news or very bad news." He lifted shrugged a shoulder. "I couldn't give a fuck. It all evens out."

"Edward," Bella said softly, and slipped off the bed to stand between his ankles. She couldn't handle him getting angry, and she knew he had so little energy left inside. This was bad timing for this conversation, but every second that passed made this worse. She began to soothe him in advance.

"Edward, that's not exactly what I mean." She raised her hand to his hair and as her fingers slid through to scratch his scalp, she wondered how she had gotten into this mess.

"It's not a mess," he observed as her hand slid down the nape of his neck. "I'll help you straighten everything out. It's all going to be fine."

She took her hand away. "You only make things more complicated," she said helplessly. "Stop listening, anyway." Her hypocrisy made her step back from him. She didn't trust herself anymore.

"Sorry, sorry," he said and gripped her waist, drawing her closer, his fingers tightening further when he felt her instinctive resistance. "Don't pull away from me," he said in a warning tone, and she once again put her hand into his hair, tugging his hair sharply in retribution, forcing him to tilt his head.

"I'm not," she said, making herself relax in his hands even as her frustration grew. "You're deliberately misunderstanding me, Edward."

He responded by dragging his palms down, over the cloth that wrapped her hips, down her thighs. Her knee buckled at the look in his eye, the sharp flash of his teeth. His hands curved around her legs and pulled her down to sit on his lap.

"I'm not blind," Edward said against her collarbone. "I know what's happening here."

She laid her hands on his shoulders, the skin hot against her shaking fingertips, closing her eyes and reaching towards him with her mind.

All she could feel was a kind of stifled desperation.

"Don't do it," he said, softer now, and she felt his tongue slide up her throat, base to pulse, and the blood began to slide through her veins like mercury.

"Do what?" She managed, and arched as she felt his open mouth on her shoulder. The press of his teeth did not surprise her, but as his arms wrapped around her waist and he began to suck, softly at first, but then harder, firmer, the heat concentrating, she began to struggle back. He was marking her skin. If Michael saw—

"Stop, Edward," she said, though her body reallydidn't want him to stop. He released her with a growl of reluctance. His fingernails made white crescents on her skin.

He caught her eye, and tilted his head as he read her eyes. "You're starting to doubt this. Me. You're wondering if you've made the right decision."

He blew on her shoulder as he rocked her forward, before pressing his lips to the darkening mark. "That was a little test. You're worried _he's_ going to see this, aren't you." He sounded… not angry, but almost… disappointed. Which was worse, she couldn't say.

He felt the softness of her skin against his mouth, and the animal inside him raged at the thought of another man seeing her body. I need to leave a mark, so she doesn't forget, he thought, the familiar splicing of temper and resentment making his jaw stiffen. It's not a diamond, and it will fade, but it's proof of this moment in time.

That was all he ever did; capture and collect proof. He glanced involuntarily at the camera on the corner of his desk. How he'd love to take just one frame, right now, of her all tangled and wild. The pink rose blooming on her shoulder, melting dark eyes pleading with him to understand what he never could.

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead more heavily against her. The emotion too intense to be called _love_ swelled inside him, and he was momentarily at a loss. He was so tired, but he hadn't come this close to the finish line to lie down now.

"Edward, this is really complicated for me," she said a little breathlessly as his fingernails scratched slowly up her back, under the shirt. "I've done something terrible, and I need time to think."

"So, I'm a terrible mistake? You know something? I envy you." His voice was dark amusement as he slowly, repeatedly, scrawled a word down her spine.

"You envy me. Huh. Why?" She said with a humourless laugh. "I'm feeling pretty shitty right about now."

"You think this is complicated. You see only choices, options, consequences. Promises made, promises broken." He sucked again at the mark, and the blood surged joyously upwards, eager for the press of his lips. "For me, there's no choice. There's only one option."

She sat back from him and cupped his neck. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up and she scowled, pressing her fingers to his mouth, and rested her temple against his.

"I've cheated on my fiancé," she said. "I am entitled to feel like shit over this."

_You've cheated on me._

A flare of temper sparked inside her, and she sat up straighter and released him.

"That's ridiculous." She said. "You had years to find me and apologize. You had to know I'd move on. I feel like a broken record saying this." She rubbed her shoulder, winced at the tender skin and resigned herself to the fact that he had left a mark.

Edward's smooth nails stopped scratching and he leant back to look at her.

"What?" He breathed, his brow creasing.

"Put yourself in my situation. What if you had to go back home and explain a hickey on your neck to the person you lived with?" The moment the words were out of her mouth and she imagined that scenario, jealousy withered her lungs.

The luscious spark lit her eye and Edward twisted his fingers into the sides of her underwear, pressed his knuckles against her hipbones and let himself sink into the delicious sensation of being wildly…_wanted_.

"And who says I'm not going to have to?" He said, baiting her, not wanting it to subside just yet. He watched her face transform into fury, felt the energy snapping underneath her skin.

He hated it... He loved it so much.

"What?" She spat, her fingers balling into fists. Michael was forgotten, and the passion that blazed in her eyes was a guilty pleasure that he drank in.

He merely smiled cruelly at her, and his gaze lingered on the mark on her shoulder, above her collarbone. He raised his eyebrow.  
"You've asked me if I'm seeing anyone. Maybe I lied." He trailed his fingers down her arms, and he felt the first serrated edges of his guilt. _She needs to know._

"Edward, do you live with someone?"

He shrugged noncommittally, but the tiny, genuine hesitation in his eye terrified her, made her forget herself. She pressed her hands onto his chest, searching, straining to hear anything.

"Tell me where you live, and with whom. Now." Echoes of doubt licked at her palms and she gritted her teeth in frustration.

Edward tried to frame a response. This was a dealbreaker for Bella. She was thinking very strange unfamiliar things and it made it difficult to tune out. She wanted truth, but she was seeking it out strangely. It reminded him of how he felt sometimes.

"Bella, I…" He frowned at her speculatively, glanced down at her hands. "What are you _doing_, exactly?"

The distinct crunch of gravel made them both glance to the window. There was a slamming car door. She dropped her hands, and bit her lip nervously. "Nothing. I'm not doing anything to you."

"I don't believe you." He caught her wrist.

A faint knock came from the front door.

"I am so fucking sick of the outside fucking world," he hissed against her throat, and dragged her face down to his. He kissed her roughly, his tongue sliding, his teeth biting. In retaliation she bit his bottom lip, the shards of jealousy and frustration making her want to inflict something on him, to mark his skin in return.

He released her mouth with a silky suck that made her heart stutter, standing and letting her slither off his lap. As he silently got dressed, Bella returned to the window, pulling it closed with sharp angry motions. Her breathing harsh and fogged the glass as she watched the faint reflections of his naked body.

"We're continuing this conversation," Edward told her curtly. "You're going to tell me what you're up to."

"You're telling me who you live with." Bella returned tartly. She recognized his tactic of turning things back onto her. He was definitely hiding something.

He walked up behind her, his cool fingers sliding around her body, over her stomach, scorching through cotton. His voice was a husky threat that made her shiver.

"If you don't tell me everything… I'll just put my hands on you."

_Maybe I'll do the same_, she thought spitefully. All's fair in love and war.

The door creaked, and he was gone as abruptly as he had arrived.

*o*o*o*o*o*o

Bella rubbed the damp spot on her shoulder in a swirling motion as a silver car wound slowly down the road. She squinted as the low morning sun glinted off the windscreen.

The violin-string tremor returned to her stomach.

She dashed to her bedroom, praying no one would see her with no pants in the hall, and quickly changed into fresh clothes, lashing at her hair with a brush, trying to not look like she'd spent a night underneath Edward. Her mouth was dark pink and kissed. She winced at the matching mark on her shoulder, and tugged her t shirt across to hide it, pulling her hair over her shoulder for good measure.

The car parked neatly beside the funeral car, and Bella peered at it uncertainly through the tangled ivy that had started to creep around her windowsill, emboldened by Edward's absence.

The genericness of the car screamed _rental_ and the moment she saw the flash of pale hair, the square hands gripping the steering wheel, she was pushing open her bedroom door and running down the stairs.

Please no, please no, she repeated to herself breathlessly as she pushed open the heavy door, felt the cool stone stairs under her feet, then winced as she sank into gravel and realised she wasn't wearing shoes. She deserved it. She deserved pain.

She raised her eyes in slow motion like a horror movie victim.

"Michael!" she squeaked as he opened his car door. He unbent himself from his seated position, wincing as he forced himself upright. Bella took a step back. She'd forgotten how tall he was. She barely took a proper look at him before she turned to glance behind her.

He had pale skin and hair, inherited from his Scandinavian mother; uncharacteristic white-gold stubble, bloodshot eyes. His casual clothes made him look younger than the image of him in her head, perpetually clad in harsh dark suits that did not suit his colouring.

"Bella," he responded, glancing down at her feet, momentarily distracted before continuing with what was obviously a rehearsed, if somewhat ineloquent, statement.

"Bella, I'm so sorry… About Esme." At this, he gestured helplessly to the funeral car.

Bella tried not to wince at the tiny shards embedding themselves into the arches of her feet. She hobbled to him and glanced over her shoulder again. They'd be in Carlisle's study right now. The window was just out of view. She let out a breath. He was safe for the moment.

"Did Esme pass today?" Michael asked, his brow creasing with genuine sympathy, catching her eye and forcing her back to the present.

"No, last night," she murmured, the wave of sorrow only dulled by the panic of this situation. "Michael, I'm sorry, but you shouldn't be here right now."

He paused. He felt how she must have felt, standing in his office doorway. He deserved it.

"I know. I'll go soon. I'm so sorry you've lost her, Bella. I'm so sorry I never met her." She bit down the swell of tears as her throat thickened. He continued, "I know it's bad timing, but I'd like to pass on my condolences to the Cullens, just quickly, and then I'll go. I'm staying in Port Angeles."

"I'll tell them," Bella began, attempting to edge Michael back towards the driver's side. Bad timing was an epic understatement.

Michael stood his ground as she moved closer. He laid his hand on her shoulder, watched her flinch away, and despair began to uncoil inside him. "Bella, we need to talk about a few things."

"Michael- please," she began, her frustration rising. "Now's not a good time." She knew she was being awful, but she could try to apologise later. For now, Michael was a sitting duck.

She was aware that he could probably handle himself; he kept in shape and the muscles in his lean forearms were defined cords.

But no man could withstand Edward's rage. He'd kill him. And soon, if she didn't get him back into this car.

"Is Edward here?" Michael asked finally. She glanced over her shoulder a third time.

"He's inside," she admitted. "Why?" She eyed Michael, who looked at her with an unreadable expression.

"Can I meet him?" Michael asked, and she gaped at him.

"You don't want to. Trust me." Her tone was final, and hinted at some urgency, and Michael frowned.

"But I'd like to meet the person who means so much to you."

"He doesn't," she denied it instinctively, praying her cheeks did not begin to burn.

"You're lying," Michael observed smoothly, and leant down, wrapped his arms around her. "I need to meet him."

Bella heard the crunch of gravel behind her.

She froze, and managed to twist out of Michael's grasp. She turned with a sick dread in her stomach, her vision blurring, stress making her breathing shallow.

Carlisle stood with the funeral homes woman.

Carlisle pressed her hand in thanks. "Oh, I'm just beating the rain," the woman said. "I just felt a drop." She gave a practiced condolence smile at Bella and Michael as she opened her car and drove away slowly, the gravel crackling beneath the tyres.

When she had driven off, the three stood in the drive. Bella wished herself away, far away, to where this could not happen. She had an overwhelming urge to shove Michael back into his car, to make him lock his doors.

"Mr Cullen?" Michael addressed Carlisle, and moved forward. "I'm Michael Newton. Sir, I'm so terribly sorry for your loss." His voice rang with sincerity, and Carlisle managed a smile.

"Michael, please, call me Carlisle," he returned, and offered his hand. "Thank you. It's nice to meet you at last."

"I know this is terrible timing on my part, and I apologise for intruding. I just hadn't heard from Bella, and I was worried. I'll go now, and allow you your privacy. Bella," Michael said gently, squeezing her shoulders, "I'm going to go and check in at the hotel. Could you call me this afternoon?"

Carlisle shook his head. "Please, come in. You're not intruding; I'm glad you're here for Bella. Come and have some coffee."

Michael visibly hesitated. Bella's body language was the equivalent of Fort Knox. She was pleading with her eyes, and he suddenly wasn't sure if she wanted him to leave immediately, or never leave her alone again. "Do you need me here, honey?" He said gently, and held out his hand.

Unthinkingly, she put her own into his, felt him freeze as his cold thumb slid over her bare ring finger.

"Congratulations on your engagement," Carlisle began, but the words died in the air as Edward appeared on the stone stairs.

Aghast, Bella and Carlisle froze, and Michael took an instinctive step backwards at the look on Edward's face.

Michael recovered impressively and tightened his grip on Bella's fingers, regretting the slip in his own body language, and assessed Edward Cullen in a split second.

This man would kill him.

Michael's brain supplied him with a touch of adrenalin and he catalogued as much as he could of Edward. Tall, and he looked like he was in good shape. Tension in his body, a well worn expression of arrogant nonchalance on his handsome face. Hands curling into fists, a vein on the side of his neck.

His strange, bright green eyes glanced down at Bella and Michael's joined hands, and in that instant, Michael _knew. _

The sky threw a first sparkling handful of rain onto the scene below, cold and sharp as pins.

Although Edward stood at the top of the stairs, and had arranged his limbs and features to appear fairly cool, he felt like he was swallowing poison. The sight of another man daring to touch Bella in front of him was unprecedented.

He was stunned by this blond mannequin's sheer audacity. It had not occurred to Edward that there would ever be an instance regarding Bella in which his reputation hadn't preceded him.

Time to show him how things work in this part of the planet, he thought darkly. His muscles were helpfully infusing themselves with oxygen in anticipation.

Even though he stood motionless, in his mind, he was walking down the stairs, brushing aside Carlisle, taking Bella's arm gently, disentangling her fingers from this man's disgusting grip. He would press her little hand between his palms so that his would be the last skin she touched. He would tug the hair from her eyes, and move her aside. Please, look away when I do this. _I can't stop this_.

In his mind, he punched the speculative, nosy expression right off this guy's face. Methodically, his knuckles flexing, the roaring blackness sweeping over him, feeling nothing but the joyful surging, the word _mine_, the moments of impact, the delicious tiredness that would cloak him after several minutes. It was all so close he could taste it. He could be doing this in five seconds. This guy would be on the ground soon enough.

Fight, Edward's muscles groaned in the ancient language of adrenalin, the gleeful echo of his wild, teenage self, buried deep. He's touched what's yours. He's taken what's yours. He's been inside her. Edward craved the satisfying sharp splits on his knuckles. His control slipped a few degrees. His boot slid forward on the stair.

Bella could see Edward was shaking. "Edward, no." Bella's voice, barely a whisper, broke through the haze and he looked from her stricken face, to Carlisle's expression of weary expectation.

He could apologise to them afterwards. There was no way he could stop himself.

Ironically, in the end it was Michael himself that broke Edward's bloodlust reverie.

"Edward?" Michael said, using his best lawyer's voice. "I'm Michael Newton. Bella's fiancé. We meet at last."

Edward's jaw tightened and Bella could almost hear his teeth grinding. He blinked once, hard, somehow shaking himself out of his demonic glaring. He moved forward with a leisurely gait that belied his raging inner dragon, and halted beside Bella.

Edward angled himself to put Bella slightly behind him.

Michael released Bella and offered his hand.

"I'm very sorry to hear of your mother's passing." He was the picture of tact and grace, and the genuine sympathy made Edward want to destroy him even more spectacularly. He did not reply. In that moment, his throat wouldn't allow him to speak at all. He was still trembling visibly, and Bella reached out and held his forearm, squeezing gently. Michael watched this with surprise, and reassessed. Maybe he was upset, rather than angry?

_Shhh,_ Bella thought._ Please, no. Hold on a bit longer._ She forced herself to breathe deep and slow. The skin under her hand was zapping, and she wanted to let go; it was too much intensity, too much chaos. She couldn't hear words or thoughts or his voice, only a kind of roar, like a train approaching in a tunnel.

Edward also took a deep breath, and as his shoulders dropped slightly, he nearly stopped shaking.

"I've been looking forward to meeting you," Michael said truthfully. "You're important to Bella." He immediately kicked himself for saying something so odd, but Edward's eyes glinted arrogantly and he shook Michael's hand in a brief crushing motion before dropping his hand with an unmistakeable expression of distaste.

"I certainly am." Edward said finally, lancing Bella with a look and tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow, and covered her fingers with his. "I'm her oldest _friend_, after all."

_Can you hear me, Bella?_

Bella gaped at Edward and something that Michael could not decipher passed between them.

"Your feet," Edward said crossly, lifting her to stand on the brick border of the nearby flowerbed. He bent slightly to brush off the soles of her feet as she wobbled. "So cold," he admonished, his fingers stroking her ankle as he straightened. "Shall we go inside?"

Carlisle began to clear his throat as Michael moved forward a few steps, outrage flattening his mouth. Edward slung his arm around Bella's waist playfully, as if to steady her, his fingers hooking into her pocket. He raised his eyebrow minutely at Michael, and his mouth stretched into a wicked smile.

"We've been together- _best friends-_ since the day we were born. Did you know we were born on the same day?" Edward said, slanting Bella an amused look, clearly pleased with how well he was playing this game.

"Really?" Michael shot a surprised glance at Bella. "You never mentioned that." He hoped that the fact that she cried on her birthday was to do with a fear of ageing.

Edward's jaw tightened. "Perhaps I've been away so long she's forgotten a few things. It's a good thing I'm back."

He tugged on her jeans pocket, and made his voice deliberately light. "Have you been keeping me a secret?"

_Edward, please don't do this, we can talk later but just let him leave-_

"She doesn't mention you at all actually." The jibe left Michael's lips and he winced inwardly. He hadn't meant to be so rude in front of Carlisle. He peeked at him, but he just appeared… far away. He wasn't present. He was looking off towards the hills, the trees, physically here but a million miles away. Michael thought of Bella, sitting in the courtroom.

Edward's expression turned dangerous, and he gave Bella a playful shake.

"Well, I'd better fill you in on what I mean to her." As if Edward himself influenced the sky, the rain began to fall thicker, faster.

"Dad," Edward said, tugging Carlisle's sleeve. "Inside now, dad." He turned as obediently as a lamb, and Bella felt a pang of recognition as she saw the bleak aloneness in his eye.

Edward tucked Bella under his arm and began towing her towards the front door. "Coming in, are you Mike?" he called over his shoulder.

"Michael." He corrected grimly, and reluctantly followed them to the porch. This was spiralling out of control, and fast. He hovered in the doorway and waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom.

Emmett appeared in the hallway, and his face when he glimpsed Michael was a carbon copy of Bella's reaction. "Michael. Hi." Emmett ventured finally, glancing between Edward and Michael. Edward had let Bella go, and was lounging against the banister with a smug smirk. Bella was twisting her fingers anxiously, glancing between the two men.

"Emmett. Nice to see you again." Michael offered more tactful condolences and Edward watched him with a mixture of disgust and glee. This was going to be too much fun.

His eyes lit up with challenge as he catalogued everything about Michael that he could. Tall, fit, prim and proper, probably had never been in a fight, had never fought for anything. Ghostly blond. A cardboard cut-out, calorie counting, latte drinking _lawyer_. They locked eyes for a brief moment. He's not stupid though, thought Edward with satisfaction as he saw the sharp understanding in Michael's eyes. That's good. I need a challenge. It will make it so much more satisfying.

Bella tried her best to appear relaxed, despite the fact that her worst nightmare was currently coming true. "What hotel are you staying at?" She asked Michael impatiently, beyond caring that she was being unspeakably rude.

"Why don't you stay here, Mike?" Edward said loudly. "There's a spare room here. If you're staying until the funeral then you might as well." He felt like crowing joyously at his own genius.

Michael glanced in askance at Carlisle, who opened and closed his mouth for several seconds as he eyed his son suspiciously. Edward was biting his cheek to stop himself laughing.

"That's a very good idea," Carlisle managed finally, unable to say anything but. "Michael, we'd be honoured to have you to stay."

"There's the room between Bella and me that's free." He lowered his voice confidentially. "Dad's old fashioned," he stage whispered.  
Carlisle rubbed his face with his palm wearily.

Michael, in that instant, knew he had met his match, and had never hated another person before so much in his life. There was nothing he wanted less. He didn't want to stay with strangers, especially grieving ones with ulterior motives. He wanted the neutrality of a hotel.

He wanted to get the hell out of this weird house.

Round one goes to Edward, he thought grimly, and said the only thing he could.

"Thank you. I'd be glad to stay, if you're sure I'm not inconveniencing you." Michael glanced to Bella. She was looking at the ground. Thanks a lot, Bella, Michael thought furiously. I've been thrown to the wolves here, and I don't get a bit of support. And where the _hell_ was her ring?

"Of course not, it's not inconvenient at all. Let me help you get your luggage," Emmett said, guiding him to the doorway. As Michael disappeared out the doorway, Emmett turned and mouthed _what's going on_. He was as angry and tense as everyone else.

Bella seized Edward by the scruff of his neck. "Get up here a second."

She dragged Edward up the stairs, and pushed him into the dark corner of the landing, out of sight. "What are you playing at?" She hissed. He rocked from foot to foot lightly, like a boxer, and stretched his shoulders.

"You think you're not sure? You aren't sure which of us to choose?" He whispered back. "I'm keeping my enemies closer, Bella." He pressed his mouth to her pounding pulse.

"If you're so fucking blind that you think you haven't chosen yet, I'm going to have some fun illuminating you. And I'm going to humiliate this fucker. No one touches you. No one tries to take you from me."

He turned slowly until it was her that was pinned against the cool wall. The smell of his skin, the fragrance of his breath, swirled and mingled into the velvet grey shadows.

Bella struggled against him, but it was futile.

"You know that by now, surely," he whispered against her earlobe. "You're mine. You know you are."

She shook her head mutely, her attention split between the chatting voices on the porch and the sudden hard press of Edward's erection against the front of her thigh.

"I'm going to have a little fun." He pressed his lips to her eyebrow and began to nibble, causing goosebumps to fan out over her arms.  
"I need a little distraction."

He lowered his mouth to hers, ghosted his lips against hers, and smiled to himself as she closed her lips in disappointment when he pulled back.

"Gloves are off, Bella," he said, his voice dripping with amusement. "This is going to hurt me more than it'll hurt you."

He paused, and for that moment, he looked desperately sad, and she caught a glimpse of the damage that he was hiding, burying, beneath the façade.

"I don't know why you insist on these mindgames," she said, knowing it was no use. He had engineered this so neatly, and yet it was completely the opposite to what a normal person would do. In short, this was Edward down to the ground.

He had the same look in his eye she remembered from their teens; he was desperate for a fight, and Michael had just provided him with the ideal pastime. A cat, playing with a bird for hours, was not a patch on Edward.

As Michael's voice grew closer, and footsteps could be heard on the stairs, Edward stroked his hand down her throat.

_I'm taking back what's mine. _

Edward's voice was loud and crisp. "Mike, we're up here. Yours is the pink room."

And then he began to laugh.

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**A/N: Reviewers get hired by Edward and can action that first agenda item. **

**Thank you for reading. I've had the most amazing year and my introduction to the world of writing has been so wonderful thanks to everyone's support. I will of course update as soon as I can.  
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	19. Chapter 18: The Proof

**A/N: I do not own Twilight, or any of its characters, it all belongs to Stephenie Meyer!**

**It has to be said. I'm only as good as my beta, and bookbag's pretty amazing so that gives me confidence as I pull the dusty curtain from the latest installment of TB&TC. Special thanks as always to gutterfairy and carrie3101 for their invaluable pre reading and feedback.  
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**Chapter Eighteen: The Proof**

With a magician's flourish, Edward dragged aside the drapes, releasing a fine cloud of peppery dust that instantly tightened Michael's lungs and dimly illuminated the room.

Pink, pink, pink. Tea rose carpet pattern, flossy walls, an ornate pressed ceiling and elaborate cornicing in a mother of pearl sheen. Even Bella had forgotten how over the top Esme had gone with this room.

Michael placed his luggage carefully against the wall, taking the opportunity to turn away slightly to school his features into a neutral expression, after the initial impact of the room.

It was like being inside a little girl's birthday cake. Edward looked like a matte black stick of licorice, out of place, marring the feminine perfection; his energy dark and snapping and at odds with his surrounds.

On the shelf above the bed, there was a placid Dresden shepherdess, complete with obedient china flock. Degas ballerinas pirouetted in their frames. A large desk was positioned near the window, chairs on opposite sides facing each other; a remaining relic from Bella and Edward's childhood.

To Bella, the tiny white wrought iron bed seemed out of place in here now. There were boxes packed in one corner, and it had the unloved, cluttered feel of a room long forgotten. It smelled like old paper and musty fabric. A small moth hastily fled the room.

"Voila!" Edward drawled, giving the drapes another rough shake, and turned to seat himself elegantly on the windowsill. He watched with one eye narrowed in sly amusement as Michael scanned the room with wide eyes. He was clearly in his own personal pink purgatory. He was making an increasingly odd sound, like a broken accordion.

There wasn't enough air to circulate the dust, and it hung in suspended animation, backlit by the dirty window behind Edward's shoulders that was being splattered with rain.

Michael instinctively reached to his pocket for his inhaler, muscle memory overriding conscious thought, but remembered belatedly it was in the bathroom cabinet at home, long unused. Despite his best efforts, he let out a mournful wheeze in the painful, ongoing silence. He tamped down his irritation; forced himself to be tolerant. He didn't do that on purpose, he told himself, avoiding Edward's avid stare.

Bella could see the tension and testosterone in Edward's every black line and angle. Whilst his slouch and casually crossed ankles gave the impression of nonchalant dominance, Bella was not confident of any ongoing even temper. She knew how quickly he could snap.

If his grip wasn't hard enough to flake the paint on the sill, the dangerous scowl that was darkening his face as Michael oscillated closer behind her surely could.

A headache began form on edges of her mind, and the residual buzzing fright made her feel light and insubstantial. Diplomatically, she stepped away from Michael and crossed to trace her fingers lightly over the surface of the desk, feeling the faint lines made by pens, finding the place in the centre of the desk, on Edward's side, where he had carved a curvy letter B with a pocketknife with his usual unnerving intensity.

She remembered him doing it; she had tried desperately to focus on a math equation and not give in to him. He wanted her to look up. She didn't give him the satisfaction. She could still remember the rhythmic scraping, the smell of wood, feeling his eyes like a physical touch every time he glanced at her.

She brushed her hair back and watched his eyes swing to her now, realising his gaze hadn't changed since those days. He might always look at her that way.

Her stomach fluttered strangely.

Edward had grown bored of watching Michael, who was blending awkwardly into the wallpaper. He almost felt sorry for him, for just one moment. The fact that he had the good sense to look so patently appalled by this situation went slightly in his favour.

Edward gave in to the nagging pull that ruled him, and allowed his eyes to drag back to Bella. It was like a compass needle finding north, and he didn't question the need. He studied her, a collector of her every nuance, and obsessively cataloged every minute shadow and memory that flitted across her delicate face, frame by frame.

She turned away from him and into a slow circle, memories behind her eyes as she looked at the room. It had always been the middle ground between their two territories; the place where the heavy spectre of homework hovered over all their fun and jigsaw puzzles caused tempers to flare. She could almost feel the painful bite of Lego under the arch of her foot.

On the floor were photographs, stacked deep along the length of the wall like oversized decks of cards. Each was mounted on a stark white background. Of course, they were all taken by Edward. She recognized the clarity of the shots and his perspective of the world. His photography was the art of the moment; looking only far enough forward to anticipate the next.

It wasn't an occupation; it was an embodiment of who he was.

She had seen these photos in the dark when she had searched for drunken Edward, the night before they… her stomach fluttered again at the memory of the look in his eye when he circled his tongue on her skin.

Stop, she told herself shakily, feeling her cheeks grow warm.

She shot a quick glance at Michael, who had grown uncomfortable with the strange silence and was dealing with it in his preferred method; he was scrolling through his Blackberry's inbox and had effectively absented himself from the situation. She tamped down her irritation at his habit of vanishing on the spot.

The shot of Esme at the front of the stack caught her, held her. She was sleeping outside on the wicker sun lounger, almost at the edge of the patio. It looked like a different world to the opaque, foggy place that Edward had lifted her into. The sky and field were a thousand shades of summer, and a forgotten book lay open on the ground, its pages fanned. Her cheeks were hollowed by illness, but somehow in the contrast of light and shade she was alabaster and gilt, completely serene, and utterly Esme.

Another person, taking the same photograph, would have only captured someone in their last months, and the image would have been a tragedy. Through Edward's eyes, she looked immortal.

This was Edward's gift. His camera captured what his heart saw. She hardly knew how he had the courage to lay himself so bare and hang these pieces of himself on a wall.

Bella pressed her hand to her mouth and tried to breathe as emotion washed through her, tangled and raw, and a warning voice inside her reminded her she had not properly cried, had not let go, since Esme had left them.

She looked at Edward, her eyes stark, and she knew he saw it in her. If Michael weren't here, she would go to him; stand between his knees, and let herself be wrapped in him. He would wrap his arms and legs around her, and hold her still on this awful earth while she cried for her mother. Both her mothers. But she could not do that, and the yearning sang in her bones, and tears burned behind her eyes painfully.

"Well, I can see the Pink Room is an apt title," Michael eventually said with forced humour, sliding his Blackberry back in his pocket, wondering when Edward would leave.

Michael reached to try to grasp Bella's hand, hoping to give her hand a meaningful press, but his swipe only caught empty air.

"Ma hoped for a baby girl once," Edward said, noting Michael's attempt with a dangerous twist of his pupils. "When a girl eventually arrived-" here, he gestured at Bella with long fingers, "She didn't want this room. Can't imagine why," he added sarcastically.

According to Cullen legend, the room was painted pale pink shortly after Edward was born, when Esme had held out hope for a girl to join her two precious boys.

When a girl did eventually join them, it was not by stork, but in the back seat of Charlie's police cruiser, as though she had been arrested for the crime of partial orphanhood. The pink room had been offered to her as first choice and she had felt so small, so alone as Charlie's footsteps clumped off, followed by the lighter feet of Carlisle.

She would never know how long it took him to drive away.

"You'll be right beside Edward, like always," Esme had said, squatting down beside the little brown-haired girl in the open doorway. "You'll come for lots of sleepovers, and sleep in a beautiful pink lotus flower, floating down the river Nile."

Bella had looked at the pink room carefully, which had seemed cavernous and huge. Then she looked at the adjacent gold kingdom ruled by the clearly indignant pharaoh of the first floor, who was eyeing Esme's diverted attention with cold, asp-like jealousy.

She had asked in a tiny voice if she could have the 'white room' instead.

Esme had explained it was only an undercoat, but Bella had pleaded softly that it remain white. It was cool and clean, but most importantly, it didn't remind her of anything. There were none of her mother's colours there. During their teenage years, Edward used to call it The Lab, and had often suggested, with one eyebrow raised seductively, that she might like to perform experiments on him.

Bella peeked again at Edward, and was relieved to see he still appeared relatively relaxed. He even managed to slide his scowl into a smirk for a moment. He was playing this game with the air of someone certain of victory, though she sensed that some of his earlier adrenalin had drained away. He had slid into his teenage mindset like it was warm, creased leather, but Bella sensed he was oscillating between this and his new responsibility. His energy was visibly flaring, and then fading.

Michael still hovered behind her proprietarily, all but forgotten.

"What are the photographs for?" She asked Edward, beginning to rifle through them. "Are you just storing them here?" She paused. "You're _not_ thinking of selling them." She surprised herself with the savage edge to her voice. To think of someone else owning these, even looking at them, made her trail her fingers down the edge of the white possessively.

"They're Ma's favourite photos. They're going to be displayed at the wake." Edward paused as he chose his words. "She chose them… a few months back. She didn't want lots of pictures of herself, she said. She wanted moments that had made her happy."

"How utterly beautiful," Bella breathed.

Edward watched her slowly wilt to her knees and had to agree.

"It's so like her," she added to herself with a smile as she flicked through the prints, pausing to look at her favourites.

Carlisle, a well aimed snowball almost obscuring his features, bar his mouth open in a huge belly laugh. There was even snow in his mouth. His own perfectly proportioned snowball was forgotten in his mitten.

Here was a profile of teenage Emmett, hunched with guilt over the kitchen sink, tasting something from his broad finger. His eyes were drooping closed in illicit pleasure. A cake lay unguarded behind him on a bench.

Rose, her entire face filling the frame, her hands on her cheeks with a look of posed mock-surprise, her blue-ribbon eyes bright and cheeky, her mouth in an O.

Bella couldn't help herself and laughed at that one, flipping through the rest of pictures. The photos were quirky and irreverent, all in vivid paint box colours, as if Edward had heightened the hues somehow. It was an anthology of all the stories that Esme loved to retell. She was suddenly struck by the sheer honour and joy of belonging amongst these pictures. To be able to consider these people family always evoked an emotion bigger than herself, and she realised how integral Edward had been to these moments; to capture them at the perfect moment.

Almost the whole family was there, she realised, as she flipped through faster. There were photos of herself that she recognized from Edward's laptop.

Here were more images that made her simultaneously smile and want to cry; Esme before she had begun to fade. Rose's first ultrasound, enlarged to reveal the small, mysterious person residing within. "I presume you didn't take that one," Bella said wryly, and Edward shook his head. "My talents don't stretch to ultrasound."

Face after beloved face, but not the one she was searching for.

"Where are you, then?" Bella asked Edward, moving onto the last stack.

"I only let her pick one of me," he said. "It's at the back." She shot him a glance, and noticed him rubbing the back of his neck warily. "You don't have to look at it now."

"You've got to get over your hatred of having your picture taken, you know," she said teasingly. There was a new tension in Edward though, and as she pulled out the photograph she belatedly remembered Michael hovering behind her.

She wished she could slip it back into the pile, but it was too late. She was unable to stop herself from staring.

She had never seen this photograph before. Incriminating was an understatement.

This photograph was Edward and Bella, around sixteen or seventeen years old, and they were completely unaware that they were being photographed.

It was at what seemed to be a family gathering or party of some sort; empty champagne glasses sat nearby and a deflated, wrinkled balloon was on the floor behind them. A blurred elbow, or something of a similar shape, encroached on the top corner of the frame, as though the photographer had been seated too.

Although an amateur shot, it was in black and white which added a timeless quality, and the composition of the photo was pleasing in its symmetry.

Each sat in a high backed dining chair, knee to knee, their legs tangled and Edward's ankle hooked around hers. They each leaned forward and in that moment, they were almost a mirror image. Her eyes were reverently examining their loosely linked fingers which lay on her knee, everything about her clearly attuned to him. Even the ends of her hair were curved towards him, like he was a magnetic. Her mouth was softly parted, as though he had just confided an earth shattering secret.

In the photograph, Edward's head was tilted, and he regarded her with a tender expression of…

_Love._

Proof, practically admissible in court, that Edward had been caught in the tight web of deep, fervent love. The violence of that love had been tempered in this moment in time. It was as though her touch had gentled him, like a hand on a stallion's cheek; a boat on turbulent oily water tethered to a pier by the slenderest of ropes.

This was not a new expression, she realised now with shock as she studied the pinpoint of light reflecting off his eye, saw the muscle standing out on his jaw as though he were in pain. It was a variation of all his expressions. She had seen that particular look before, but had always interpreted the slight frown to be disapproval, or dismissal.

It was like finding a love letter from the past. Ten years too late. Abruptly, she saw it through Michael's eyes and cringed inwardly.

She set the photograph down hastily at the front of the stack. "Who took that?" She asked, trying to keep her voice light. She couldn't tear her eyes from it. It glowed like a pearl in the dim room. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was sure it was audible.

"Ma did, actually," Edward said, pleased with the darkening of her cheeks, and rocked forwards easily off the sill to stand beside her.

"I didn't know she had it. I'd never seen it before."

All three regarded it silently once more. Michael began clearing his throat, his breathing ragged and laboured.

Edward couldn't resist teasing her, taking a jab at Michael.

"What did Ma say to me about this shot?" He looked up at the ceiling as though searching his memory. "Oh, that's right. She kept this in her jewelry box, all these years. She said this photo gave her hope."

Bella frowned at his deliberate provocation and he passed the flat of his palm down her arm in a calming, perhaps apologetic stroke.

"May I ask when the funeral is?" Michael interjected, his stiff jaw making his words flat. Edward was distracted by a car pulling into the drive, and dismissed him shortly.

"Don't worry Mike- Sorry, _Michael-_ you'll only need to stay in the pink palace for a couple of nights at most. Ma was pretty specific. She didn't want to…hang around too long. We're cremating her tomorrow afternoon in a private service, then a wake here with family and friends afterwards. It'll be more of a party than a wake. If you'd ever met her,"- he said this with accusation colouring his tone- "You'd know that Esme wasn't big on ceremony."

He stood, and hugged Bella to his side briefly, lowering his voice and effectively making Michael an outsider. "They've come to… take her away now. I've got to go and be with Dad."

The set of his shoulders told Bella that his new responsibility was a heavy load.

He let her go with visible reluctance and backed out of the room, catching the doorframe with his hand when he was all but out of sight. He pulled himself back around the corner.

"I'll be right back," he said, his meaning unmistakable. He lingered a fraction longer, eyes like green glass. His jaw flexed once, and he was gone.

*o*o*o*o*o*o

It was like Edward had sucked the air from the room; burning hot and fast like he always did.

Michael crossed to the door and slowly shut it. The hairs on Bella's arms rose and she stepped back as she caught his face when he turned. In that instant, she braced for fury, but instead he just let out a sigh and put one hand on his hip.

"Please explain to me what is happening here." He looked at her directly, his hair ruffled, a sheen of sweat on his brow.

"Nothing. It's all very complicated and I will explain," she began defensively, wondering where to start.

"Looks pretty uncomplicated to me," Michael interrupted mildly. "He's in love with you." He said it as easily as though remarking on the weather, and Bella lost her breath.

He moved to the window and struggled with it for several moments, the aged latch almost frozen in place. Finally, he wrenched it open and air rushed in, whipping past him. Tiny flecks of rain settled on Bella's cheekbones. The sky looked like grey paint being rinsed from a white wall.

"Well?" He said, breathing the fresh air, his wheeze easing slightly. He turned his head towards her slightly. "He's in love with you." He said this again, and she tried to deny it with no success.

"It's not like that…" She suddenly wasn't completely sure she could. She tried again. "We've always had a very unusual relationship. Complicated," She said again, aware she sounded vague and weak, grasping for a way to try to explain their connection without sounding trite.

She began to stack the photographs further from the window.

"Explain it to me, then," Michael said, touching her shoulder with a warning in his eye, signaling her to stop avoiding this. He backed over and sat on the pink patchwork quilt.

As he sat down, she saw the pain in his eyes. The fact that he was trying to understand made her feel worse than if he had screamed at her. His reaction was in stark contrast to Edward's explosive rage in the field when she first arrived.

Bella stood before him, twisting her fingers a few times, deciding how to begin.

"It's true. Edward and I were born on the same day. Three hours apart," She said. "You know I virtually grew up in this house. After my mother died, my dad just… froze. He couldn't handle having a little kid around, and he worked different shifts. I think I reminded him too much of her, too. It worked out well, me coming over here."

"I thought Edward was more like your brother, like Emmett is," Michael said suspiciously.

The photograph, leaning against the wall beside her legs, was evidence to the contrary.

"Did you… date? How could your father leave you in this house when you were a teenager?" He indicated the photograph. His temper was spiking. "It doesn't seem right to me." He was clearly imagining the worst. She hurried on.

"No, we were never…_together_. The family teased us when we were little. We were so inseparable, they all called us The Wonder Twins. Until we hit our teenage years and Edward… Well. He flirted with me constantly, which was very confusing, and we did kiss a couple of times. But he dated so many other girls that he had to call them all Princess to avoid calling them the wrong name."

She dropped her eyes and bit her lip.

Hurt seeped into her voice. "I had a huge crush on him," She blurted. "He was impossible to live with, and I never knew which was worse- being under his microscope, or being forgotten. But he was exciting to be around, and when he put his mind to it, he could be so impossibly charming and lovely. I'm making him sound terrible. He was my best friend, Michael. The person closest to me. We've always had a strange connection."

She sat beside Michael, tucked her foot under her knee as she turned to him. "Please, try to understand. There's a lot of history here."

Michael was impassive, and he picked at some lint on the quilt. "When was the last time you saw him?"

Bella sat up a little straighter. "I caught him having sex with my best friend several years ago," she said finally. "I'd thought….." She trailed off for a moment. "Whatever. I was wrong, whatever I thought. I left a few weeks later on a College scholarship."

"And where is your ring, Bella?" He said it so softly her heart hurt. He took her hand and stroked it. "From what I gather from the girls around the office, when a woman's just gotten engaged, it would take bolt cutters to get her ring off. Yet," he touched her bare finger, "It's gone."

"It's in my bedroom." At his expectant eyebrow raise, she said in a rush, "Edward and I gave Esme the impression that we were together, so that she got her final wish. You know, that we'd end up together." She threw up her hands at the look of disbelief on his face, and was irritated to realise he had gotten so much information from her from such a mild questioning technique.

This is why he was such a good lawyer. You found yourself admitting things, almost as if to try to penetrate that mask of calm.

"It was dishonest, yes, but I'd do it again. She died thinking that her son was finally matched and settled. She was so happy, Michael. She glowed." She tilted her head stubbornly. "I won't feel guilty for it. It was the right thing to do."

He said nothing more, and the deep disappointment that filtered through his pale eyes made her feel an inch tall.

"Can I get out of the witness box now?" She said quietly. "I apologise."

Michael rubbed his eyes wearily. "Let me get this straight," he said wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This teenage infatuation is the reason you can't open up to me."

Bella made to interrupt, but he raised his eyebrows and she closed her mouth again.

"Bella, there's no point denying it. He's the reason you can't trust, can't relax." He waited, but she did not reply. "Bella… Did he… hurt you in some way?"

"He would never hurt me," she returned, anger slicing her. "You've got the wrong impression of him. He has done nothing but protect me and care for me my entire life." She realised belatedly that Edward had been absent these last few years, and hoped Michael did not pick up on that. Of course, his lawyer's mind had not.

"It sounds like you're carrying around a false image of him." Michael's voice was even and reasonable.

"I am not." Her voice heated. "I know who he is. I know him as well as I know myself." She tugged her hand away.

"You're aware that he's trying to take you from me." Michael's voice was sharper now, and he forced her to catch his eye. She saw nothing but resolve. In his mind, he was going to win this.

Bella said nothing. There was nothing _to_ say, but yes.

There was silence for a few minutes while Michael processed this, his analytical mind finding the loopholes in this scenario, noting every inconsistency.

"Was he pining for you all these years?" Michael said at last, effortlessly lancing her through the chink in her armour. "You're special, Bella. Was he faithful to you as he traveled the world?"

"No, and I didn't expect him to be," Bella said, her voice cracking as the rising pain began sandbagging her throat, preparing for the downpour that pricked her eyes. She wanted to cry, so badly.

"Have _you_ been waiting for him?" Michael steepled his fingers and watched her look up and to the left, and knew she was lying, even as she uttered the evasive words.

"Michael! That's ridiculous. I said I'd marry _you_." She closed her eyes as she heard her own voice say it.

"I'm glad I don't have to remind you of that." He stood as the rain began to fall more heavily outside and slid the window down again. He turned and leaned against the pane.

"Does he have a girlfriend? Is he even single?"

"No- I don't think - but it's not my business." She said, feeling like she was being backed into a corner by his subtle probing. He was expertly leading the witness.

"I don't even know where he lives. I hardly know-" Here, she broke off, and Michael's eyes had the same glint he had in a court room.

"You just said you know him as well as you know yourself." He paused. "Bella, he could be just playing around with you here. It sounds like he did that a lot. You've spent a couple of days with him, but you don't really know him any more. People change, but then again, maybe not."

Bella bit her tongue roughly, her hands balling into fists behind her back. "Michael, will you just stop?" She didn't want to hear this. She wanted to press her hands to her ears, but he continued on.

"You agreed to help him look like a saint to his dying mother, after all he's done to you." The awful disappointment coloured his tone again. "He's hurt you, used you, and yet you complied. You should have stood up to him. I see now that was what your extra sessions with Angela were preparing you for." He paused meaningfully. "You should have talked to me."

"I owe this family everything-" she started to protest, but he cut her off, his voice growing hard.

"You owe Edward nothing, from what you've told me; from the effects I've had to live with. I can see it. He never got you, and his ego couldn't resist trying again. He's got no respect for me, or what that diamond ring represents- your commitment. Your _promise_ to me."

His words echoed painfully, and she turned away to the window, the guilt stealing her breath away.

"I'm aware of the commitment I made to you," she said stiffly.

He continued. "Well, thank Christ for that. You've put him on a pedestal. Men like that never change. They just chase women, then throw them away as soon as they catch them." He latched onto her other Achilles heel, and it was agony.

Bella glared out into the garden; every charge against Edward making her angrier, hurt more, making her want to slap Michael. "How dare you speak about things you know nothing about," She interrupted. "You know nothing about him."

"That's because you've neglected to tell me about your childhood sweetheart who's been lurking in the wings all this time." He got to his feet, the resignation and tiredness evident in his face, in his voice. "How the hell do you think I feel right now? I get here, get completely bulldozed him, and you stand by and watch it." He paced several steps away, and turned to face her. "You're defending him. You're enabling him."

He made a visible effort to calm himself, joined her in front of the window. "Bella," he said, softly now, holding both her hands in his. "I hate to see you drawn in. You've got a kind heart, and people take advantage of that."

She turned her face away stiffly.

"Should I be worried about this?" Michael asked flatly. "Is there something you need to tell me?"

"No," She replied automatically. "There is nothing going on." For once, she lied convincingly enough for him to believe her. He let out a breath and his shoulders relaxed.

"Fine," he said. "I trust you, even if I don't trust him an inch." He frowned. "Bella, I've got something I want to tell you." Michael pushed his glasses up his nose and blew out a breath. "It might make you angry."

"I'm already angry," she muttered, shaking away his hands.

"How do you think I feel?" He said again. "I'm fighting for you. I love you. I won't apologise for loving you. When you told me that you'd marry me, I've never been so happy."

Bella shifted uncomfortably, not thinking of Michael's proposal, but remembering Edward dropping down onto her body, the succulent tenderness of his bottom lip, the glow of triumph in his eyes, the dark raven black of his brows.

She looked at Michael's fingers on hers, and raised her gaze to his. His pale eyes were benign, and his high colour was receding. To him, she would forever be a locked door, and the sense of privacy was like a sigh of relief. She was safe in her own mind.

"I've put a deposit on an apartment, for us," he said bluntly. "I've put nearly my entire savings into it."

Her stomach dropped out. "What? Michael-"

"I know, I should have spoken to you first. It just came up so fast. Neil and Jen got transferred, and I know how much you loved their apartment- you said you wished ours was more like theirs…" He trailed off.

Bella felt like fate was stitching her into a pocket; every one of his words sewing her in more firmly.

He rushed on. "I guess it's…. a belated engagement present." He paused, and the silence almost rang in his ears. He couldn't even hear her breathing. "I thought you'd be happy. I hoped you'd be happy."

"Michael…" She let out a breath, and fought the clammy nausea that was rising inside.

He took her soft sigh to be happiness. He leaned forwards, rubbing her chilled hand between his.

"It's got plenty of room for us to spread out, and you can use the spare room at the end of the hall as your study… at least until we have a baby, someday. Bella, we're going to be so happy." His smile was butterscotches and platitudes, and she could barely look at him.

"I wish you'd discussed this with me." She said flatly. "You had no right to make this kind of decision without consulting me."

Her heart began to fold. In half, in half again, until she felt only pain.

Michael nodded, contrite. "Absolutely. I feel really terrible about how I've handled this. It just all happened so fast- they wanted to know if I could put a deposit down, or if they should take it to a realtor. They needed an answer, and I couldn't get a hold of you. You didn't answer my messages. I just… Made the decision myself. I thought it was the right decision."

She was whiter than white, and he wondered if she would faint.

"I'm a bad husband," he joked weakly, trying to make her laugh, and she rested her forehead against the cold glass and resisted the urge to correct him. _Not yet, you're not._

"I need to think about this," she said, almost inaudibly. "No one is giving me time to _think_." Had she been breathing, the glass would have been fogged. The rain ran down the ancient pane like tears.

"It's a little late for thinking, I'm afraid," Michael said finally. "It's happened. The cheque for the deposit has already cleared. It's virtually the same mortgage repayments as our current rent, and you've been managing your share of the payments pretty well. It's a really good investment." He paused, and considered. "A week ago, you would have been thrilled."

"A week ago, you included me on decisions and asked me how I was feeling." She glared at him. "When you weren't at the office, that is."

"I'm sorry." He was so genuinely contrite that the guilt in her stomach began to coil again. "I'm cutting back my hours at work. I told them I needed to reprioritize a few things."

"It's all done, then," she said dully.

"I can't wait to take you home," Michael said softly, walking up behind her to wrap his arms around her. The feel of him, somehow foreign now, pressing against her back, made the numbness spread. She felt herself becoming nothing more than an object; a wooden doll, an empty vessel.

She didn't realize how badly she was shivering.

"Well. That's that, then," She said, barely audible.

She watched her own blank face in the glass as she spoke. She asked him something almost impossible, knowing he would not refuse her. She was a bad person for making him promise this, and she did not deserve his agreement.

"I would appreciate it if you could try to be civil to Edward, even if he's being awful. Everyone here is grieving, and he deals with things in strange ways." She turned and pushed Michael away.

A knock on the door made her jump.

"Bella?" Rose's voice was muffled. "Can I come in?"

Michael took a moment to smooth his hair. He opened the door with a smile in place. "Rosalie, nice to see you," he said smoothly, and Rose gave him a small, cold smile.

"Michael, so nice to see you again." She looked anything but pleased. "It's lunchtime. I was hoping you could help me in the kitchen. Bella, why don't you get changed and meet us downstairs?"

"Of course," Michael said automatically, stalling. "I'll just wash my hands and join you in a minute." He glanced at the open bathroom door across the corridor, unwilling to leave his conversation with Bella so… adjourned. He wasn't sure whether the matter was settled, and she was swaying and pale.

"Go, I'm fine," Bella said, managing a faint smile that barely creased her mouth. "I'll see you downstairs."

"There's a bathroom under the stairs," Rose said crisply, just short of rudely, and took his arm. The look she shot at Bella as she left was scathing, and Bella felt another black mark on her heart.

*o*o*o*o*o*o

Michael's revelation clattered to the floor like a handful of cold coins, and she was left with nothing.

Bella turned, unsure of what to do next, panic and pain making her clutch at her stomach.

She looked at all of the photographs, trying to calm herself; the faces, the memories, and as she tried to leave, she could not help bending down to look at the photograph of her and Edward once more.

One last time.

After this, she would not look at it any more. She couldn't. She wouldn't let herself.

She touched her trembling finger to his jaw, not exactly seeing his beauty, but the burning presence he always radiated.

If she'd seen this photograph a week ago, her vision might have been skewed. She might have seen his fingers holding hers, his ankle tethering her, interpreted his oblique black angles as arrogance and felt the imbalance of power. His sleek, heavy teenage muscle pitted against her feminine lightness.

But now, as she saw them both through Esme's eyes, she realised that in fleeting moments, there was harmony. He held power in what he could know; but she was the only one he could find this connection with.

In a strange way, this photo was more like finding a love letter from Esme.

And if they ever been honest with each other, who knew what might have been.

She was glad she'd seen this, and realised the truth of that life she had lived eons ago. So much had been wasted, and it was too late. So much damage had been done.

Michael had acted on her pledge to him; he'd begun building his life around her decision, and she could no longer deny that he would be affected. She'd sometimes thought him absent or dispassionate, but she had glimpsed his inner resolve, the almost unfathomable tolerance that made him a good man. She was so used to Edward, who would have raged and fought and begged and promised her anything. They were so opposite, in every way but their determination to keep her.

To leave Michael now would ruin him, in every possible way. To leave Edward... she couldn't even contemplate it.

There were two hearts, and she had to decide which to break. She did not count her own, for it was already broken. She had broken it herself.

She finally cried, at her naivety for never acknowledging that one day she would have to face Edward again. The fear of being unimportant to him when she saw him again had rusted her from the inside.

Being so far from Edward, in the calming bubble of her own design, she'd carried on as best she could despite the gaping hole in her chest. Michael had implied it, and it was true: she'd waited for him faithfully, whereas he had not. She'd expected him to come at any time. Those first few years she had waited for him like a captain's wife on the shores, but he had never come.

He had lived his life, and she in turn had learned to live hers. The fact that she felt guilty for this was a tiny injustice. Life was for living, not for waiting.

Now, the pain of having to live without him would only numb her further. The coward in her welcomed it.

You're too late, she wanted to say to the image of younger Edward as she gazed unseeing at the photograph at her feet, felt the fevered passion that emanated, as if he would breathe fire should anyone take her.

Yet he had hurt her, let her walk away, and never came to find her.

She straightened and left the room and went to hers, mechanically got changed as per Rose's instructions, though they'd patently been an excuse.

Standing in the arctic white, she held the diamond ring, watching the blue sparks flicker in its depths as she turned it to and fro. It reminded her of Michael; it was icily, dazzlingly perfect. It had a valuation certificate, and was insured.

It had been given in good faith and, most importantly, she had accepted it.

When it came down to it, it was the only ring she had; the only one she'd ever been offered.

Edward had offered her nothing that she could readily define. She couldn't name a single thing he wanted from her, other than to somehow… _own _her. She couldn't quite say if he was in love with her- here, her heart squeezed a moment in delicious, traitorous pleasure.

How he meant to action his desire to consume her, she had no idea, and frankly it was terrifying.

She studied the small token in her fingers.

It wasn't Edward's ring. Sometimes, things were as simple as that.

She walked into the hallway, pinching it between her fingertips, sick to her soul as she began to slide it back on. Time to make good on your obligations, she told herself harshly even as the tear slid out. It's all too late for you. You've made your bed, and now you must lie in it.

Edward was walking towards the bedroom, and halted in the middle of the hallway, his eyes instantly dropping to her hands and seeing the reptilian gleam of the diamond.

When he looked at her again, his eyes were so aghast, so starkly surprised, she felt ashamed.

"I leave you alone for five minutes?" he said softly, gesturing at her hand with the ring half on. "I come upstairs to be handed my invitation to your wedding?"

"At least I know what this means," she whispered, more tears following. "It's too late. I made a promise to him, and I'm going to have to keep it."

He looked at her steadily, unflinchingly, as though the words had not hurt. Her tears were what made him continue to believe, proof that her body and soul did not believe her own words. He shielded the flickering light inside him, and walked on towards fate.

He backed her slowly down the hallway, to his closed bedroom door. He closed his hand softly on her jaw and tilted her face, kissed her cheekbones tenderly.

She closed her eyes in despair, and he licked away her tears from her cheeks with his rough tongue; an instinct that bordered on animal. Her shivering stopped, her hands clutching at his warm solid ribs, tugging him closer, pushing him away, her ears listening for any footstep on the stairs. Michael was below them now and he could reappear at any second. He hadn't been pleased about being removed from her.

Edward felt her tension and guilt and it left a bitter taste on his tongue. He slid an arm around her waist. "It kills me that you care what he thinks," he growled nastily.

"This is killing _me_," she groaned, aware of how desperate she sounded. "I can't do this with you. I can't."

"I'm going to fucking murder him for making you doubt me," he whispered against her sensitive skin. "You've known him for a moment, a second. The blink of an eye. You've _always_ known me." He paused. "And he sure as fuck doesn't understand a thing about you and me."

She was twisting in her skin, clinging to her new resolve, feeling the diamond prick against her palm as she clutched it tighter. She focused on the feeling and fought the uncoiling in her atoms and cells whenever Edward was near enough to touch.

She hated the way he so easily untied her, slid past her defenses, made the decision she had just made seem faded and old. She gripped onto her decision tightly, and as in her mind she pictured the engagement party, the process of executing this promise, sudden sun slanting through the pink room's window caused broken colours behind her eyes.

She was a person drowning, and she couldn't save herself.

She felt the hot burn of his stubble against her jaw, and knew he would use the weapon she could not resist. The kiss was coming, building, like the wave that would knock her under. As she heard him taking a deep breath, she pushed him away ineffectually.

She braced herself. "Don't. Please don't. I can't now."

When it came, it was a soft chaste kiss at the base of her throat, before he surprised her by sinking to his knees between her feet.

"He wants a wife." He pressed his face to her stomach, putting his hands on the door either side of her, his body momentarily going slack and heavy against her.

"I want my soul back." His breath was hot, right through to her skin.

She felt like screaming with frustration. She had never known anyone like him. He could make such brief, passionate, poetic statements as passing comments, almost making her wonder if she'd misheard him.

He'd always tended towards the dramatic, even the Byronic, especially when the stakes were high. Their entire life had been endless loops of her turning away, making her own choices, and Edward coaxing her back to him with the most beautiful words, said in a voice so utterly sincere that she had never resisted him yet.

It was his terror of losing her to someone else; she'd always known it. Michael was wrong, though, it wasn't his ego exactly. His mysterious heart, forever a maze to her, could not bear the thought of parting with her, or anyone he loved.

Sure, he'd loved effortlessly halting a classmate's bumbling flirtation with her, but at the heart of it was his inability to separate himself from her in any way. It wasn't ego, because he almost believed they were woven together. She doubted he even knew why he constantly burned to keep those he loved for himself.

Especially in their later years of high school, if she made a decision he did not like, he would curl against her in her bed, breathing words of forever and pleading, so soft against her temple she could barely hear him, could not feel anything but his breathing. She would awake, and he would be gone, and she would see him in the cafeteria with another girl on his knee. But still, as he watched her and his eyes blazed over her, away from her, and always back again, she would feel those words still on her skin.

And the worst thing was, when he made these last-ditch declarations, giving her these glimpses of the poetic soul inside the black armour, she had never been able to tell how serious he was.

He sounded pretty serious right now, and her legs felt weak.

"I wish I could make you understand how hard this is for me," she said, threading her fingers through his thick hair, cradling the back of his neck as the shock of his words reverberated.

"Don't talk to me about hard," he said, almost inaudible. She remembered where he had just come from, and she hurt for him as she rubbed his shoulders with her palm, not realizing he could feel the diamond ring hooked loosely onto her finger.

"Edward- is Esme- gone?"

"Yes, she's gone now. Dad's… he's just broken by this, Bella." She felt him scrunch up his eyes against her.

"He wouldn't let Rose change the sheets, or touch anything in their room. He's just… sitting in his armchair. He won't come down; he just keeps repeating that he needs to be alone." Edward sank lower. "How do I get him through this? He could die from this."

"Be there for him; that's all you can do," she said softly, bending to hug him awkwardly. "I'll go up soon and see if he wants some company."

"I'll be there for him," Edward said, "But I'm not strong enough to deal with this."

She suddenly wasn't sure if he had been entirely talking about Carlisle. His hands slid up under her top, cradled her ribcage as though he were lifting her above water. Trying to stop her drowning, and drowning himself in turn.

"You're strong, so strong," she whispered, tugging at him ineffectively, glancing down the hallway and trying to pull him up. "Please, get up. Please just give me time. I need time to work this out. Neither of you can convince me. I need to work this out for myself. I want to keep my word. I'm not the sort of person who breaks her word." As she spoke, she took the ring from her fingertip and put it into her pocket.

He watched the movement. "I guess that's the most I can ask for now, then," he commented, his face almost blank. "It's not in my nature to ask for nothing, especially from you," he said to himself.

He said a little louder, "And you did say I was yours now, that you'd look after me, so I'm glad to hear that you won't break that promise."

Edward rose to his feet, and pressed his palms on the door either side of her shoulders. He took a deep breath and pressed his lips to hers.

At first, the kiss was a sigh, undeniably a relief. A rose of pleasure bloomed in her chest, cognisant thought blurring as the thorn of guilt pressed deeper still. His lips ghosted against hers and he breathed softly into her mouth, his flavour familiar and sweet, just how she imagined ambrosia to be.

She tried to remain unresponsive, but it was impossible as he slanted his lips, the warm friction and the slide of his tongue.

He groaned, drooping further, pressing her flat against the door, his body heavy and warm. She was reeling, spinning. He pulled back to speak against her lips, allowing her to catch her breath.

"If that were me upstairs-" He kissed her again softly, "And you'd just died… or left me…"

He trailed off, and sucked her bottom lip briefly, a tiny tremor of tension giving some shape to his shoulders. He cupped her face and continued kissing her lightly.

"What?" she asked between kisses, dragging in a much-needed breath, wanting him to finish his sentence. When he didn't, she pulled back to look into his fractured green irises.

He spoke into her mouth. "Hear for yourself." He kissed her again, smiling to himself as he felt her hand slide up under his shirt. "I know you've heard me. You've been _trying_ to hear me," he said. "Don't deny it."

"I wouldn't deny it," she returned breathlessly. "Not when you can take the truth from me whenever you want it. I just don't know how I did it. Or if I could do it again."

She thought of the photograph of them both, the surprise on her face and their linked fingers, and began to wonder.

"I've always wondered when you would, or if you ever had," he said roughly, echoing her thoughts.

"You're not surprised?" She asked as he smoothed his mouth over her brow. "You were expecting this? I thought you'd be angry."

She was aware he was deliberately enticing her with something he knew she found intensely fascinating. He was dangling the chance for her to look inside his strange mind, to understand his motivations and truths. Each time she touched his skin and caught the whispers and glimmers, her addiction only grew stronger. It made it harder to stop.

He knew it. He used it against her.

"I've been expecting this all my life. It hasn't been easy, being on my side of this one way glass. The way I see it, the time is now." He smiled softly against her.

She tried to turn away, but he held her still.

"I'll teach you," he tempted quickly, trailing his lips over her cheek to rest on her earlobe. "Well, I could let you try," He clarified finally. He smiled a little as he tugged her hair playfully, ran his fingers through the warm waves.

"I could hold very still, and let you touch me." Her body responded to his husky words, and he spoke even as his lips caught hers again. "I'll think the answer to every question in your head." He trailed his fingers up her back slowly, leaving a web of sensation.

"We wouldn't even need to speak aloud anymore." He ran his hands down her sides.

"With my fiancé in the house? How could I do that?" As soon as the words left her mouth, the shock of Michael intruding again and her sheer hypocrisy made her cheeks burn. He slid his tongue against hers, his fingers gripping her more firmly, his knee slowly pushing between hers.

He was snarling inwardly at that; she didn't have to read his mind to know it. She felt it in the sinuous feline stretch of his body as he pressed against her, the firm lick of his tongue along her bottom lip, the scrape of his teeth that followed. His hard body was almost bruising her as he flattened her, pressed the breath from her lungs.

"You're going to finally know what it's like to have this burning under your skin," he said roughly, sliding his fingers to the small of her back to arch her further against him.

"Can you imagine what it was like for me, as a teenager?" He kissed her again, all traces of softness or exhaustion gone as he scratched her with his stubble and expertly tilted his head to change the angle of the kiss. "To have two reasons to touch you?"

He slid his fingers under her clothes and to her skin, his fingers digging into her backbone lightly. "I wanted nothing more than to touch you," he said, a memory making his voice a little wistful. "I just needed to be near you." He reined himself back and took a deep breath.

He moved off a little, so she was no longer pressed against the door. His hands slid further up, and he rearranged her bra straps, untwisting one, making them lie straight on her back. As he fussed, he ducked his head, a tiny wrinkle on his brow as he stared at her seriously.

"I was a kid, Bella. I was confused and arrogant and didn't know what I had. What I _could_ have had," he corrected quickly. He began pressing kisses to her cheeks, jaw, collarbone, his lips soft and firm.

"Please try to forgive me. I'm so sorry." His voice broke a little, and he kissed her once more on her mouth, savagely, hungrily, tasting her mouth and swallowing her gasp.

"We have a connection that you can't deny anymore. This is all there is. I've lost too much…I can't lose you too." His words were only making the dizzying spinning worse.

He looked down at her. She looked flustered and confused, and she had unknowingly taken a handful of his t shirt in her fist. Her other hand was wrapped around his waist, her fingers digging in almost painfully.

"Yes, you look like how I felt as a teenager," he commented with wry amusement, taking her wrist and unfolding her fingers gently to release his shirt.

"Tell me what I mean to you." Her voice shook a little. "What… _is_ this?"

His mouth dropped open, and his mouth stretched into a brilliant smile. "You're kidding, right?"

She looked at him, her forehead wrinkled seriously, and he pressed his smile to her neck, shaking with laughter.

Finally, he said, "Now, why should I _tell _you?"

"Edward. Stop playing games with me."

"Let me rephrase. Why would I simply tell you the answer to this mystifying riddle, when I could make you find out yourself by touching me?" He paused. "I'd be an idiot to pass that up." He rocked his body against hers companionably.

She breathed out slowly and turned her face away, to the grey sky boxed so neatly by the window in the pink room. "You're playing games, and for me, this isn't a game. This is my life."

"Then start living it," he replied simply, twisting strands of hair from her face and tugging the shirt from her shoulder a little.

"I've got another life already." Her voice took on that resigned echo that he hated so much.

"Then get reincarnated," he suggested sardonically, smoothing his hands briefly over her shoulders. "Today."

He snorted with amusement as he considered something. "I should've told the funeral guys to take Mike away, too. He's bloodless, soulless. A damn nice guy probably, but life with him would make you fade away. He doesn't even seem to care enough to fight for you. I bet he was polite as a schoolboy in there. He doesn't burn for you, the way that I do. You'd fade away," he repeated again.

"A faded life, opposed to a life of having no privacy, being swallowed whole by you?" Her words had no force behind them. She was being forced to choose between owning a tiger or owning a cat.

He ignored this blithely and kissed her on the tip of the nose.

"You know that doesn't just apply to you now. I'm going downstairs, and I'll watch you throughout this fucking farce of a lunch." Her skin was instantly laced with heat as he pressed his bottom lip against her earlobe, and the rumbling vibrations of his voice against the tender veins in her neck made her shudder.

"You'll know that I'm thinking about being inside you. Body and mind," he continued, his fingers trailing lightly, sparking her blood.  
"To think about you with him makes me sick. You give yourself to me, beg for me, _claim me_, and then go back to his side like I'm nothing?"

"Then you'll understand how _I _felt throughout high school." Her words were cruel, and she knew they had hit their intended mark. He breathed out with a slight tremor.

"It doesn't feel nice does it," she said, "To be cast aside for someone else?" She shook her head. "It broke me, every single time."

"Is this revenge?" He said at last.

She shook her head. "Of course not. This is life. This hurts me. This is the worst week of my life."

"Surely it wasn't _all_ bad." The kiss he placed on her cheek as he pulled away was friendly and firm. His hand lingered on her wrist, and she suddenly remembered her own broken gasps of pleasure. She blinked in confusion, hopelessly tied in knots, and realised he had given her that thought. He turned to go.

"Behave yourself," she warned him, her fingers curling into his belt of their own accord, studs digging into her palm.

His smile grew. "Of course. I'll be the perfect gentleman. It'll be fine."

She squinted doubtfully and held him tighter. "If you play this like a game, I'll know this is a joke to you."

He untangled himself with no small amount of regret, for it was so lovely being held and forced to stay.

He was so tired he allowed the mask to fall briefly from his face, and he walked down the hallway with heavy limbs and awful twisting desperation. He needed Esme's enduring fatalism, but she was not here to tell him the words he wanted to hear.

"It's not a joke," he said quietly over his shoulder. "I'm sorry I've made you think that. Come for lunch, Bella."

*o*o*o*o*o*o

The table was covered in several platters. Wet red grilled peppers overlapped onto marinated mushrooms. Crumbling, sharp cheese jostled with artichoke hearts and glossy olives.

The grey sky chilled the light and the stretched silence rang like chiming crystal.

Emmett had appeared from upstairs only moments before, mercifully breaking the strained civility between Michael and Rose, who were seated opposite each other like unfriendly chess players.

Emmett's plate was already so full it was virtually obscured. He seemed intent on loading just a little more cheese onto it. He carved off a slice that could choke a cat.

Michael, initially mesmerized that someone could eat so many calories at lunch, shook himself from his reverie and began to haphazardly select food at random with the self preservation of someone unsure of his next meal.

He was strangely grateful to Emmett for appearing; his steady neutrality was in stark contrast to Rose's patent dislike.

He glanced across the kitchen to the vicious red onion, still in its bowl, which Rose had asked him to chop _very_ finely. Rose followed his eye line.

"Sorry, Michael. In the end we had so much food I didn't make the dip." She blinked innocently and bit into a carrot stick.

Michael forced a polite smile, tearing his bread in half slowly. She's never liked me, and I don't know why, he complained bitterly to himself. There was no reason for it. When she and Emmett had come to stay, hadn't he been the most gracious host? He had taken them out to dinner, and driven them to the airport.

He'd done nothing but be as polite and friendly as he could, and still it hadn't passed muster with Rose. He wondered why he cared so much. It was probably because he actually really liked her. She was zesty and fun and such a good friend to Bella.

When he saw Rose's eyes melt in an almost maternal fondness as Edward slid into the room, Michael suddenly realised maybe she hated who he _wasn't. _He challenged his own thought immediately. Rose would never have seen Bella and Edward together. Still, there was no doubt which team she was cheering for, as she straightened Edward's twisted t shirt and fetched him a glass.

Edward eased himself onto the barstool beside Rose with a faint groan, looking ruffled and wearing his customary faint frown. He slumped, his elbows on the table, and rubbed at his face. He was so clearly sideswiped by grief that he seemed to have momentarily forgotten that Michael was at the table. Rose rubbed her palm over his back, saying softly, "Is Carlisle alright?"

Edward nodded wearily. "He just needs to be alone for a while."

"I don't know if he slept last night." Emmett said with a grimace. "I checked in on him at four and he was awake."

"I'm going to take him something to eat soon," Rose said. "Have you talked to Bella, about whether she can stay?" Rose asked Edward, as an aside.

"Stay?" Michael asked, sitting up straighter.

"Carlisle needs some support, Michael," Rose said slowly. "He needs people around him for a month or two, until he gets back on his feet. Emmett and I can't…" here, she gestured to her rounded stomach, "But we were hoping that Bella could take a leave of absence from work and stay here. With Edward."

Edward pulled himself upright and looked directly at Michael, his gaze like a heat seeking missile. He was blatantly daring Michael to reject this idea.

Michael pushed away his plate, unnerved. "She hasn't mentioned this to me."

"There's a few things she hasn't mentioned to you," Edward muttered sarcastically, his mouth lifting into a small smile. He tossed an olive into his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully, his eyes glittering.

Michael took a deep breath. Don't let him antagonize you, Michael warned himself. He'd faced more hostile witnesses than this.

"Well, she and I have just put a deposit down on an apartment, so she'll be needed back home soon, to pack. But I'm sure we could work something out; maybe she could come and visit again soon." Michael observed Edward process this information, and watched with some alarm as his fingers curled into a fist.

"Well, perhaps she could stay a week after the funeral," Michael hastened.

"I don't know why you're thinking these are your decisions," Edward returned furiously.

Emmett interrupted as the voice of reason. "Edward, don't be a prick." He said it so kindly, so lovingly, that Edward slowly slumped, still visibly angry, but exhaustion weighting him down again.

"What Edward means to say, Michael, is that we'll just wait to hear what Bella decides to do." Emmett's eyes were sad. "The family really needs her."

"Maybe I'll just go check she's alright," Michael said, desperate to leave, just as Bella appeared in the doorway, her cheeks pink from the cold water and rough toweling she had subjected herself to.

Everyone could see she'd been crying.

"I'm here, sorry," she said softly, wincing at the tension in the room. Michael still appeared to have his face intact, she noted with some relief. Edward, who had been almost sliding off his bar stool, sat up straight when she appeared.

"Alright, darling?" Edward enquired, his saucy tone belied by his benign expression. Michael eyed him suspiciously, and pulled out the vacant stool beside him for Bella.

"Fine, thank you." She took her place beside Michael, but directly opposite Edward, who winked at her insolently as he popped an olive into his mouth.

She felt his ankle slip between hers, but this time it was she who hooked her ankle around him, sliding the bottom of his jeans up to press their bare ankles together. She held him still and shook her head at him. _Behave yourself. _His eyes sparkled in delight, and she let out a disgusted breath.

"So, how is work, Michael?" Emmett asked finally, after the silence had gone on for several minutes.

Edward was watching Michael like a hawk.

"Really great, busy as always," Michael replied smoothly, and Bella chewed bread methodically, pondering this. She wondered if he had been taken off the case. He must have, she realised. Otherwise, how could he be here right now?

"Great…" Emmett said, clearly out of conversation material. He looked at Rose for assistance, but she rolled her eyes and looked away. This lunch was entirely too civil for her liking. As much as she hated how exhausted Edward was, the moments that he took aim at Michael gave her hope that he was coping, rather than sinking.

She was still so disappointed in Bella. A blind person could have known how perfect Edward and Bella were for each other; Rose had always known they would be. When they looked at each other, they _burned_. She just _knew_ they'd slept together. Bella should have just broken it off with Michael in the drive, she thought bitterly. It would save putting Edward through this.

Michael's pocket began buzzing. He took his Blackberry out, stroking its screen reverently with his thumb, and reluctantly rejected the call. "Sorry about that." He smiled apologetically. "Like I said, it's crazy at work right now. It was hard to get away."

"Well, very good of you to take time out for us," Edward muttered sarcastically. He snapped a wide, white smile back onto his face when Michael glanced at him and added, "Sounds like you're so busy you don't have time for _anything."_ He shot a microscopic meaningful glance at Bella.

_Edward, don't_, she thought. _ This is totally unnecessary. _

"I make time," Michael said stiffly. "Life is just about organization, after all."

"I couldn't agree less," Edward declared. He took a huge mouthful of bread, and began to chew, holding his fork up to indicate he was going to elaborate. Michael waited for him to finish chewing for what seemed an age, his irritation growing as he glanced at Bella and saw she was watching him, transfixed.

_Bella, Bella, Bella, Bella…_the husky whisperings of Edward's voice in her ear, but somehow not, was making a song of her name. Goose bumps rise on her arms.

"Now, I wouldn't claim to be _disorganized…" _ Edward began finally.

"Are you kidding?" Emmett butted in. "You didn't cash some of your paychecks for eight months." He clearly had more damning examples, as all brothers do, and opened his mouth to continue but trailed off when Rose's eyes flashed dangerously at him.

"I wouldn't say I'm disorganized," Edward said again with a frown at Emmett, "But I think life is all about being a slave to what you love."

"I love what I do," Michael objected.

Edward paused for a beat. "That's not what I meant, exactly, but anyway."

_Bella, Bella, Bella. _

Michael breathed out through his nose like a bull.

"Well, tell me something about you, Edward," Michael said. "As I said, Bella hasn't told me too much about you. I've been following your work for some time."

"What do you want to know?" Edward sat back abruptly. He loathed discussing himself.

"I just wanted to know how you cope with so much travel." Michael's eyes glinted behind his glasses. "How many weeks a year are you away from home? It's got to be tough."

Edward leveled his gaze on Michael. "I'm in the States three or four weeks a year, on average." He crossed his arms. "It's the best job in the world. It's more than a job."

"And you'd never give that up. Gosh," Michael said to Bella. "Can you imagine that?" He slid his eyes to Bella slyly. "Never being home, living in airport lounges. That must be so tough on your girlfriend."

Edward scowled. "I'm not seeing anyone."

"I thought I saw a picture of you in a society page only a few weeks ago. You were dating that Israeli model, Tanya Denali, right?"

"Yes, we saw each other for a while." He shrugged dismissively. "It was never anything serious. Thankfully, the language barrier meant that I didn't understand half the things she was screeching at me."

Rose burst out laughing, the sound like bubbles and bells, and Bella bit her lip to stop smiling. She was so infectious, and Edward was outrageous. His eyes glinted in cheeky amusement as he continued eating olives.

Michael was not amused. "Didn't work out, huh? Never mind. I'm sure they're all lining up, a good looking guy like you. You'll find someone."

Bella ducked her head as she studied her plate, the glow of laughter vanishing and the old wound flaring into pain. To think of him, walking through the world and its hordes of women made her shrink back into herself.

Edward's eyes flashed. "I could never find the person I was looking for." He leaned back in his chair. Bella raised her eyes to his, and was surprised to see, and feel, that he was beseeching her to understand.

"Weren't _you_ engaged, prior to Bella?" Edward spat the words with distaste. "A few years ago?"

Michael was stung. "How did you-"

"I googled you, too, you see," Edward smiled thinly. "So that didn't work out for you, either?"

"I knew about that," Bella admonished him. "You two need to stop."

"No, he's right. I googled him. But there's one thing I wasn't able to discover… where do you live?" Michael asked flatly.  
"That information has been… harder to come across."

Bella suddenly thought that she wouldn't put it past Michael to use his network of contacts to access some of the more advanced databases available in law enforcement. If there was information he wanted, he could get it.

Rose and Emmett froze, and Rose put her hand on Edward's knee in a gesture of solidarity.

_Emmett and Rose know where you live, but you won't tell me?_

Bella closed her eyes, tried to get her unwieldy mind to focus on the place where her skin touched Edward's under the table. _Tell me. You need to tell me. _She tried to hear, to grasp the wisps and intangible breathings, but could feel nothing but isolation emanating from Edward. _Are you afraid that this will hurt me?_

_I know it will hurt you. But not the way you think. _She jolted at his thought, and he pulled his ankle away from her, breaking the connection.

"Edward? Where _do_ you live?" Michael asked again.

"Who do you live _with_?" Bella said aloud, her eyes stark. "Why won't you tell me who it is?"

Edward stood slowly, and knocked the table a few times with his knuckles.

"I don't need to sit here, in my own house, and have you try to get some kind of confession out of me," Edward said. His movements were jerky with agitation as he moved away and drank deeply over the sink. He turned, and the slow danger of his movements, his rapid breathing, made each catch their own breath.

"I'm getting out of here for a while."

He strode out the back door, his steps sharp and angry.

Rose and Bella both looked to Emmett in askance. "Let him go," he said, more to Bella.

They watched Edward stalk by the kitchen window, running his hand through his hair furiously.

Emmett smiled politely at Michael, but his smile was thinner this time and did not quite reach his eyes. "Edward is a very private person," Emmett said to Michael sternly. "He isn't comfortable talking about himself with people he doesn't know well."

Bella knew his words were partially aimed at her, and she carefully took a sip of water.

Michael nodded slowly, managing to look contrite. "I didn't mean to make him run off like that. I apologize."

Bella bit back another ruthless urge to slap the triumphant look from his face.

*o*o*o*o*o*o

Edward strode angrily around the house and paused for several minutes on the front steps, until his breathing slowed and he had recovered from the urge to pick up a bar stool and ram it into Michael's face.

The image of Bella's bleak expression haunted him; she so clearly expected the worst from him, always. It hurt more so, because she could do so little wrong in his eyes.

He studied the sky, saw how beautiful the light was as they filtered through these bruised, dark clouds. This was photography weather; in this light, everyone was at their most beautiful. Imperfections and flaws were silvered away, and the most ordinary eyes became lustrous and dark.

Bella weather, he had always thought of it, but she looked that way to him, even under a cloudless blue sky.

He wondered painfully if she would ever choose a life with him, outside in the light, instead of tucked away in the walls she seemed to need so much. He smiled a little as he thought of her ankle against his, her increasing desperation, her darkening pupils and flushed cheeks. He hummed lightly as he breathed the charged air, feeling a little revived. He had told her he was taking back what was his, but maybe he had gotten that wrong.

Maybe he should have told her to take back what was _hers. _

He had faith in her, even though he could see Michael tossing ties and responsibilities over her, tangling her like a bird in a fishing net. The tiny light in her eye when she looked at him made him cling to hope. The fact that she wasn't sure, hadn't made her decision, made it too hard for him to lay his heart on the line. You're childish, he told himself in disgust.

Be straight with her. Tell her. Tell her everything.

_If she comes tonight, it will be a sign to tell her everything.  
_  
Satisfied in leaving it up to fate, he buried the shame of being a coward, and looked back at the house.

Rather than walk to his car and drive, like he was so desperate to do, like he was sure they assumed he would do, he toed off his shoes and quietly opened the unlocked front door of the house.

He padded softly upstairs, breathing the familiar scent of dust and mahogany, lemon furniture polish and the scent of Bella's hair. He paused on the landing at the first floor, but continued upwards, his feet soundless on the stairs.

And even though he protested softly, Carlisle sat compliantly as Edward pulled the sheets and blankets from the bed, found new ones in the linen closet that smelled of Esme's familiar lavender and mint. It made him close his eyes.

He remade the bed with surprising military efficiency as Carlisle looked on impassively.

Edward then took Carlisle's arm, and walked him down the hall to the bathroom.

Downstairs, Bella and Michael silently peeled potatoes and chopped vegetables alongside Rose and Emmett, preparing vast quantities of food for the wake, following the handwritten instructions in Esme's scrawling hand as the old radio on the shelf crackled out Frank Sinatra.

The washing machine droned endlessly, and as Bella polished the mahogany table she kept one ear on the front door, feeling Edward's absence like an ache. Where was he? She assumed he was driving, his little car flying around the sharp corners with the grace of a swallow. She wouldn't allow herself to go and look out the window. That would be too pathetic.

He felt so far. Like she'd lost him.

Upstairs, Carlisle and Edward lay, side by side on the bed, and each fell asleep instantly, their socked feet touching, each dreaming of the woman who evaded them so elegantly.

One man, left behind. His son, faced with a similar possibility.

Neither of them was willing to believe it was over.

*o*o*o*o*o*o

The sky was velvet black, and Bella was walked to and fro in front of her window in her pyjamas. She squinted out into the dark, trying to see his headlights, but could see nothing but the peachy square reflection of the open door behind her.

He wasn't answering her texts. She rechecked her phone again, and realised with a start that Rose was standing in the doorway.

"He never left. He's upstairs with Carlisle," she said, matter of factly. "I took them up some dinner before."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Bella exclaimed, frustrated. "I've been so worried about him." She threw the phone on the bed and wrapped her arms around her waist, letting out a shaky breath.

"I just liked watching you pine." Rose smirked nastily, watching Bella's eyes grow angrier, fever bright. Much better than despair, Rose thought with satisfaction.

"That was really cruel," Bella hissed, her anger covering her acute embarrassment.

Bella knew Rose's observation was irrefutably true. She'd spent every passing minute of the afternoon hoping he would walk through the door, wishing for the sarcastic tilt of his mouth, the energy he radiated that called to her own and activated her.

She should have been relieved he was gone, but instead she'd been on edge, her skin crawling and her stomach in a twist. She had no idea where he was, and despite years of existing in this state, she found she could no longer bear it.

She had barely said anything to Michael all afternoon, unconsciously blaming him for Edward's absence. Everything about him was grating on her; his habit of nervously clearing his throat, his subservience, the way he asked every question as though he knew the answer and was engineering that expected response.

However, Bella couldn't deny he'd been a big help today, and the house was polished to a dull gleam, trays of food in the fridge, Esme's favourite champagne chilling. He'd cleaned and swept with no signs of irritation; no sign he was doing this grudgingly. As he silently cut roses with Emmett in the garden, his methodical clipping and selection of the most perfect blooms showed the same level of care and attention he put into everything.

Michael was simply a good person, in a place he shouldn't be. He had come here with every intention of keeping his distance, saying the right thing, being the perfect fiancé and leaving after putting in a solemn appearance at Esme's funeral. Instead had been sucked into this seething atmosphere of tensions and emotion, and had grown as ragged as the rest of them. He had endured indignities and thankless labour, and her cold cruelty, with good grace and more patience than anyone could possess.

Michael had stumbled onto this strange landlocked island where the inhabitants, shipwrecked too long, had grown savage.

Bella thought inexplicably of The Lord of the Flies, but as Michael passed by now, clad in pyjamas and a robe, his shaving kit tucked under his arm and his glasses slightly fogged, she thought that maybe it was an unfortunate comparison. She had an image of Edward lighting a fire with Michael's glasses, and she fought the urge to laugh, the ticklings of hysteria rising up in her throat.

She was losing her mind.

A realization had built slowly throughout the endless afternoon, the evidence undeniable.

Every time she had imagined the door opening, and she realised he was not Edward, she felt it, and she knew.

She had her epiphany somewhere between polishing Carlisle's dress shoes and arranging champagne glasses on the sideboard in the dining room.

Michael's pale Siberian husky eyes followed her everywhere, mournful and vigilant, and had made the afternoon the worst kind of torture. No wonder he was looking at her as if he no longer recognized her; she was now as wild and tangled as the other survivors of this place.

Michael was seeing her now, for the first time in her true state, and she could no longer deny what she was.

It had been the photograph upstairs that had finally brought her to the edge of it, and she had looked down from the terrifying edge. The memory of the look in Edward's eye, proof of love, captured forever, that had jolted her from the edge.

She confessed it to herself as she stole outside quietly to heave in the cold moist air, the birds wheeling overhead, the leaves of the plants nodding their agreement.

Edward had loved her once.

And she had always been in love.

Now, Rose watched Bella's face with interest, saw some kind of new understanding, but said nothing. She turned to look at Michael. The poor bastard looked as awkward as hell, hovering in the hallway, and Rose thought he looked like a five year old playing at being a grown up.

"Rose-" Bella began in a low voice, wanting to know why she was so distant, wishing she could confide in her, but Rose was angry and Bella was unsure her voice would even form the words.

Michael hovered at a polite distance, still within earshot.

"Goodnight, Bella. Michael." Rose turned away from them with heavy dignity, the hall light gilding her hair, and she smiled for the first time in hours. She walked away.

"Lock your door tonight," Michael said to Bella firmly, sounding eerily like Charlie used to at the end of his phone conversations.

"Michael, don't be absolutely _fucking_ ridiculous." Bella exploded, kicking the doorframe, her hands clenching at her side.

"Relax. He was talking to me," Edward said sarcastically as he walked past them both. "Don't worry Mike. I'll be safe. Goodnight." His door clicked.

The impact of him passing her room for that tiny second had the effect of knocking the breath from her lungs. She would surely never be able to face him again. How she had lain beneath him, and managed to survive it, she had no idea. Her cheeks were burning hot and she was grateful for the dark.

The truth sang in her blood, was written across every cell.

_That's who I love. _

Michael gave Bella a kiss on the cheek and she fought not to turn her face away.

For a long time, long after the rest of the house had darkened to black, she stood in the hall, hypnotized by the thick gold line glowing from underneath Edward's doorway.

Knowing was enough, she told herself. She could bear returning to her real life, worlds away, knowing he had loved her once, and she was at last honest with herself. Now she could figure out how to cope with this love.

She prayed that the knowledge remained enough.

She stepped back slightly into her bedroom, the gold line beckoning her, apple and lavender in her every breath, and she prayed even more fervently that she lasted the night.


	20. Chapter 19: Where The Heart Is

**A/N: I do not own Twilight, or any of its characters, it all belongs to Stephenie Meyer! **

**Thank you all for waiting patiently. Your insightful and passionate reviews, PMs and tweets are lovely to get. **

**I appreciate your support and encouragement!**

**bookbag, carrie3101 and gutterfairy are invaluable help to me as I work towards the conclusion of TB&TC. We are nearing the end of our journey, probably just one or two more chapters to go. **

**I hope you enjoy it. **

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**Chapter Nineteen: Where The Heart Is  
**

At two am, three people were awake.

None were awake willingly. Time inched onwards and the phantom of sleep teased and eluded them cruelly. The day's regrets and triumphs, passions and pain, simmered in their veins and slowly turned into delirium.

The night outside was vicious. This particular wind, sharp as knives, had blown straight across the raging Pacific Ocean. It kicked and tripped over the tree tops and through the feathers of the night birds, before crushing itself against the windowsill with astonishing force.

The house stood firm, though it did shudder from the strain.

The old glass panes groaned with each fresh blast of wind, and so did the inhabitants, both waking and sleeping. All were desperate for comfort, a gentle hand, the oblivion of a dreamless sleep.

The air outside was viciously cold, but fevers burned inside tonight.

By three am, two people were awake.

Bella laid crookedly in her narrow white bed, gripping the edges of the mattress, a dew of sweat on her brow.

The weight of her newly discovered heart was unfamiliar; a sharp ruby swinging from a chain that was tightening around her throat and shortening her breath.

She kept kicking at the suffocating tangled vines of the blankets, her toe performing regular sweeps of the bed. The lack of anything warm or solid or _Edward_ was keeping her awake, although she hated to admit it.

She ached, down to her bones. She rolled over again, and the blankets gripped her tighter still.

In petty defiance of Michael, she had deliberately left her bedroom door ajar, and was troubled by the crooked diamonds and tombstone shapes formed by the shadows and thrown onto her white wall. She couldn't remember ever sleeping with the door open before, and she felt exposed.

Wind slid through the tiny cracks around the windowsill and caused her bedroom door to creak softly, open and closed, and she felt like her room was alive.

Breathe in, breathe out. She unconsciously slowed her own breathing to match.

The glow from Edward's room somehow slid down the hall to her, golden and buttery, and as the wind shook the house again, the ivy outside scratched like desperate fingernails.

She lay suspended in time, enduring another endless night, and there was nothing but the gold, the glow, and the line that begged to be crossed.

She could feel Michael's presence in the next room as acutely as if he were spying on her through a hole in the wall. His proximity felt unbearably close. She justified this by thinking perhaps it was because the presence of someone from the outside world sleeping in this house seemed oddly invasive. She should have found a way to get him out, but Edward had set the trap so very neatly.

The memory of how badly she'd treated Michael- today and always- was piled on the top of her messy stack of guilt that she didn't know how to sort through. She'd failed him at every possible moment, and the counter-arguments and perfect retorts to his steady lines of questioning came to her now, hours late, and she itched to rewind time and replay this day again. She would temper her reactions and make Angela proud; she would have been more centred and mature. She would follow each issue through to resolution.

She would have looked at the photograph of Edward and her and smiled for her past self, rather than looking at it and only seeing the present.

Poor Michael, she thought with a pang. He would not only have to lie there trying to sleep opposite that particular portrait of her and Edward, but it would be displayed tomorrow at the wake.

It seemed like an invasion of a long-forgotten private moment, and she wished it could remain hidden. Everyone that knew her, and Edward and this family, would recognize it for what it was- a portrait of unrequited love. His, hers, caught for all time.

She could not think of it without silver feathers in her stomach.

Bella sat up wearily, and slumped off the edge of the bed, her head in her hands. Love was making her flutter on the inside. But her guilty conscience roughened the edges, turning it to nausea.

She stared at the insidious gold glow through her hair as it slid across the floor to her feet. Her eyes were dry. She was numb with exhaustion.

She could feel Edward's magnetic pull, tied to her pulse, being pulled taut from down the hall.

She felt like her body wasn't hers anymore. She'd tied herself to this bed with another invisible thread, but the hands of the clock had worn it thinner, close to snapping.

The desire to walk down the hall was slowly shredding her self control and making her hate herself.

She began to doze, sitting on the edge of her bed, and in her mind she was touching his door, pushing it open, preparing herself for the moment his gorgeous eyes lanced her with electricity, lighting the spark inside her again … then she blinked, and realized she was staring at the floor, and the scraping sound was merely her own door creaking.

She pictured this walk countless times as she lay in bed. What she would say, how he would react, and in turn how she would respond, until she drove herself half delirious and could no longer trust herself.

She harshly reprimanded herself with every breath she took.

Weak, predictable, unfaithful, cowardly.

She crossed to the window and pulled it open, sighing in relief as the wind engulfed her and cooled her brow, tugged at the edges of her clothes. She felt like it was pushing her away from the sill, back into the house, in the direction of the hallway.

She hung halfway out her bedroom window and looked to her right. Michael's dark window was closest, his curtains drawn sensibly against the elements. She knew he wouldn't be having a good night, and it wasn't just because of that photograph and her appalling treatment of him. He was accustomed to a firm mattress, and the antique bed had sagged dreadfully under their weight when they had sat together, edging uneasily towards some kind of ultimatum that she knew was looming closer.

Logically, and emotionally, she knew her decision would need to be made tomorrow. It was only fair. Whatever she chose, she was hurting people she loved.

When she thought of Edward pressing his face against her stomach, his muscles straining from his burdens, she felt guilty of fretting over losing the life she'd built.

But she couldn't help it, and her mind strayed to the little moments of domesticity and peace in her world outside this place, her hard-won solitude and Michael's gentle companionship.

She thought of him now as she leaned towards the night outside. Michael's key in the door on Saturday morning, returning from a run with broadsheets and cappuccinos. His smile when he first introduced her to someone as his fiancée, and the way her stomach had flipped a little and her cheeks had heated. She remembered the times she had looked down at her dashboard to see the tank had been miraculously refilled.

She had to admit, being taken care of had become a habit. After years of anticipating Edward's every mood and motive, having her needs tended to was like sliding aching feet into slippers.

With Michael, she would never have to worry about any of life's practicalities; he seemed to take care of most of her life's more mundane administration effortlessly. She'd never opened the bonnet of her car, and never had to call the gas company to settle an overdue account.

Life with Edward would be chaos. It would be like going from a library to a war zone.

Her gaze shifted.

Edward's room was the next window along from Michael's, and it was glowing, his window open and curtains billowing. She wondered what the house looked like from far away.

One white square, another in gold. Some sort of code for loneliness.

She looked straight down, into the darkness as the wind swirled and rattled the trees, and realised how far it was to the ground.

Yet, Edward had climbed to her so many nights, sliding in beside her while she pretended to sleep.

"Playing possum?" he sometimes teased, always pressing his mouth to her cheek slowly as his legs slid in with hers, rearranging her against him, the delicious kiss making her toes curl against the sheets and releasing the pressure in her ribcage that she'd unknowingly carried since the last touch of his lips.

Knowing now that he had loved her then made his gesture of climbing to her piercingly sweet, and she mentally apologised to Michael as she allowed herself to remember it.

This was like learning a new language, and revisiting forgotten conversations to translate them. Of course, the beautiful memory was entwined with some pain: his mouth on another girl's cheek in the morning and the echoing isolation of lunch on the sidelines. She nibbled on her thumb as she realized how she always deliberately sabotaged herself from remembering anything beautiful and uncomplicated that he did for her.

She had thought so easily of lovely things Michael had done for her. She would try for Edward now. She closed her eyes, and loosened her hold on herself a little.

Edward had once entered a photograph of her in a regional photography prize in high school, and of course it won. Even Bella could not deny he'd made her beautiful. It was hung in the hall for what seemed an eternity, and every time the Edwardians walked past it their jealousy was palpable as they turned their overly made-up faces away.

Now, she frowned. This wasn't a pure memory; it was overlaid with his possessiveness and his ongoing campaign to remind everyone who she belonged to, and the illicit pleasure of knowing this, even back then.

When she thought about it more though, she could see the other side to it; how everyone walking past it would have somehow sensed how much power she had over him. He had loved her so much. She had always known which were his footsteps, following her down the hall, gaining ground. When she had looked forward to the crowd of teens parting, stepping out of the way instinctively but as though nothing were amiss, the arm that wrapped around her waist, pulling her back against him, and the mouth on her nape had never been a surprise.

She tried to think of something more black and white. There were too many shades of grey there.

She thought of Edward piggybacking her home from the bus when her new shoes had given her blisters, the feel of his solid strength beneath her. He hadn't been willing to put her down at the front door, but had carried her around inside the house for a further ten minutes until she'd been breathless with laughter and protestations. Esme had eventually appeared in the doorway of the dining room as Bella's swinging legs knocked over chairs, and had laughingly told Edward he would have to let her go sometime. "Never!" Edward had replied, and as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders in a firmer hug, she had prayed that he was telling the truth.

She thought of his arms around her as she cried after another night of stilted dinner conversation with Charlie.

Hundreds of memories, crowding closer, pressing up against the lid of her Pandora's Box, desperate to remind her of the safety and fun and danger and life she had experienced in Edward's arms, in his hands.

All of these memories were of Edward from years ago, the teenage boy shaded in charcoal. He was now redrawn in the shape of a man, inked by life's rough black strokes. The two of them overlaid into a more complete picture of someone who was still a mystery to her.

She closed her eyes against the night, exhaustion making her delirious. It seemed like an eternity since she had slept. She remembered the feeling of being pressed down into the mattress by Edward's body, held in place, the lush warmth and weight releasing the tension from her body. She stretched her stiff shoulders desperately, her breathing increasing.

She would not be able to sleep without talking first. Angela had often encouraged her to just talk through her anxieties with someone close to her. Words circled inside her, and she needed to make sense of what was happening.

She thought of waking up Rose, but remembered belatedly that she was angry with her. There had never been a bad word between them before, and the memory of Rose's sharp tone lashed her like a whip every time she relived it.

Emmett would be an ideal sounding board, but waking him would of course disturb Rose.

She wanted to lean against Carlisle and feel his silent acceptance and support.

The morning terrified her. She was about to cause so many people damage, and had so much to repair, she felt she could not bear it.

Bella's heart beat erratically as she slowly turned to face her bedroom door.

She shouldn't even consider it.

But Edward could ease her out of this confusion by simply smiling wolfishly and making a joke. He would tease her, she would reprimand him, and the world would be put right.

And he _was_ awake. She could feel him through the walls.

Anyway, she reasoned with herself, she'd always confided in him as they grew up. Usually it was unwillingly done through her skin, but on rare occasions she had sought him out voluntarily.

Despite the fact he had seemingly dedicated his life to tormenting her with his own strange brand of intensity, he had always been her closest friend. Her only friend, actually, besides Emmett. Living in such an isolated world, she had turned to Edward out of sheer desperation when the loneliness grew too great to bear.

There had been moments of extreme irony in which she would vent to him about his sins. Rather than react defensively, he would consider her words and provide sage advice as though they were discussing a third party.

"Tell me to mind my own business," he would extol as they lay in the grass beneath a willow tree, the summer sun burning Bella's bare feet pink. "Tell me that I'm a moody prick, and that I shouldn't treat someone I worship like that."

He had rolled onto his side, the light making his eyes almost frighteningly green. "Tell me to not be with other girls." Frown deepening. "Tell me to quit fighting this." His eyes had dropped to her mouth. "Tell yourself while you're at it."

The moment had stretched, and at her lack of answer he had shaken his head at her, his eyes guarded again within one blink of his lashes.

Then Esme called across the field that Lauren or Jessica was on the phone, and Edward had dropped a kiss on her forehead and run from her, leaving nothing but a flattened patch in the grass where he had once been; a rattling in her heart.

The tiredness throbbed, and she took one step, pausing, half turning away, unwillingly taking another step.

Her steps were like the soft, deliberate footfalls of a sleepwalker as she turned towards the gold line. Her stomach was aching, her hands reaching out to trace the wall, walking towards the line she knew she would have to cross. If she crossed it, she could not come back from it. It was like a neon strip at the edge of the black, and she walked towards it, unsure of what she would say to him but knowing that she had no more strength. The pull was too strong.

She reached the end of the hall and rested her fingertips lightly against his door. Her breathing was uneven and raspy. She turned her head sharply and held her breath when she remembered Michael was sleeping only feet away behind his own closed door.

The floorboard beneath her foot spitefully let out a deep squeak.

She stilled like a rabbit, listening for danger.

There was no sound from Edward's room.

She rested her cheek lightly against the door, took a deep breath, and turned the doorknob, intending to whisper through the crack.

The wind sucked the door open hard, and she was caught off balance and on the brink falling headfirst into his room. Instantly mortified, she straightened and tried to regain her tattered composure, scanning the room as she clutched the doorframe, inching back from the threshold.

Her thousand imaginings of him slouched seductively in bed or working at his desk were way off target.

He wasn't there.

She stood in the doorway for several moments trying to catch her breath, one arm wrapped around her waist to steady herself.

"Idiot, idiot," she repeated to herself under her breath, glancing at Michael's door, trying to define whether she felt relieved or disappointed. It was a dangerous place, standing outside these two doors.

She prickled with awareness as her heart rate increased.

"Looking for me?" Edward drawled from the hallway, making her draw in a sharp breath.

She turned slowly as her cheeks bloomed with colour, and raised her eyes slowly from the floor. He was wearing his skull and crossbones pyjama pants, and she recognized the black t shirt she had slept in the night before.

She avoided his eyes, which were obscured by a bar of shadow.

She glanced at the doorframe, her own hands, anything to avoid looking at him directly. She was almost mute from awkwardness. Her body sang with the need to be against him.

He made no move towards her. She felt completely exposed; he could see her, she could not see him. It was as it always was, but now the stakes were higher than ever, and the brief tastes of power she'd enjoyed over the last few days were a distant memory to her now.

"Well?" He said, and she realised she had not answered him. His mouth twisted in amusement. He folded his arms, a few fingers tapping.

"Yes," she said lamely, feeling utterly ridiculous. There was no point in denying it. She straightened to face him, bracing herself.

He stepped once towards her and halted.

"Where were you?" She asked, and he gestured at the ceiling.

"Just looked in on Dad."

She swallowed. "Is he alright? I feel so bad that I haven't gone in to see him. I just didn't want to intrude. Do you think he'd want to see me tomorrow?"

He smiled, still shadowed.

"Of course he would. He's the same person. He will always want to see you. How could you be intruding? You're part of this family."

"You're the best medicine." He added as he stepped forward again. She twisted her fingers nervously.

"He's just a little broken hearted…" he said, half to himself. He crossed the remaining distance to her, somehow avoiding all the creaking floorboards beneath the hall rug, probably from years of practice.

As the lamplight from his bedroom lit his eyes, they looked at each other properly. Now that she knew how to label this shimmering wondrous fear, being under his eyes was an entirely new experience. She was laid bare, more so than ever before.

She shivered, bracing herself for the moment that he touched her. Then he'd know.

She backed away slightly. He stopped in front of her and took her face in his hands to tilt her face towards the light, shushing gently when she flinched.

He frowned gently, as he always did, the green of his eyes and the way he searched her expression making her think of the photograph.

"What's the matter? You're looking a little strange." He studied her face, puzzlement tempering his expression.

Each of his fingers so gently splayed across her neck, jaw, cheekbone, cradling her face carefully.

"You feel nice," he breathed, studying her as though she were one of his compositions. His eyes gleamed in pleasure. "Sort of… different."

He trailed his finger along her bottom lip, his mouth lifting into a smile as she subconsciously pursed her mouth into a kiss.

She shook her head and forced him to drop his hands away. He merely squinted at her harder in the dim light, absently putting his index finger into his mouth as if to try to taste the change in her.

"I'm trying not to listen," he said in an absent voice, his white teeth biting down on his finger, and her pulse boosted.

"What are you hiding?" he said finally, reminding her of the conversation outside Esme's room, and she schooled her expression so he could not see her feelings written all over her face. She took a deep breath and forced herself to maintain the eye contact, rather than ducking her head away as she wanted to.

Abruptly realizing where they were having this conversation, she gestured to Michael's door beside Edward, and softly whispered, "Shhh."

He rolled his eyes heavenward. "I'm not keeping quiet in my own house." But he lowered his voice anyway and moved closer still, his body lightly touching her, his scent making her mouth go dry. His fingers began stretching out to her of their own accord, needing to press against her skin. She looked at him, her eyes so afraid and fragile he stopped himself.

"Are you OK?" He said, so tenderly that her eyes drooped closed.

She ached, she ached.

"I'm fine," she whispered almost inaudibly, glancing to Michael's door.

Was this the last time they would ever be alone?

"What do you need?" Edward whispered back, his breath bathing her face.

She shrugged helplessly, even as her body answered him. He smelled like home to her, and as she dropped her eyes from his blackening pupils to his jaw, she realised she could see his pulse in his throat.

When her eyes lifted to his mouth, he lost himself a little.

Without thinking, Edward settled his lips against hers, a move as natural as breathing to him.

He only intended to comfort her, to taste her, but he was unprepared for her spike of lust, the sudden bite of her fingernails on his wrists. Her tongue slid into his mouth as her arm came up to cling to his neck, and momentarily he was at a loss.

She arched her back and he felt her beginning to pull him into the bedroom, surprisingly strong.

He did not know what had changed since the last time he'd seen her.

This new sweet taste, a strange echo, thrilled him. The glimpse of her mind before he deliberately blurred himself from her thoughts was just mindless want, and it made him groan softly.

Now she was kissing him like it was the last kiss of her life; hungrily, her tongue licking his, her teeth pressing into his bottom lip. Her body bowed against his. Her knee began to slowly rise as she pulled him more firmly down to her mouth, and he felt it press against the outside of his thigh.

She slowly began to wrap herself around him.

The house was trembling now from the force of the weather, a building roar that sent a slate tile arrowing into the night and the papers on his desk whirling.

Her long hair blew around them. He put his hands tentatively on the small of her back, and at first he thought her whimper was pleasure. But as he thought about it, he realized it could just as easily have been a sound of pain.

Edward broke the kiss abruptly and looked from her exhausted face to the rumpled mess of his bed.

She was completely wild, a twisted and tangled version of herself. She looked ravenous, her mouth swollen and pink, her eyes shining with tears. She pressed the back of one hand to her mouth, even as she tugged him closer with the other.

It would be too easy to smooth her skin onto those sheets.

Although it pained him to do it, he unhooked her arm from his neck and turned away, ruthlessly checking his lust. She was caught off balance and he steadied her waist.

She looked exhausted, and afraid of something, and whilst the teenage demon in him loved the idea of claiming her with her foolish fiancé snoozing yards away, he knew it would cost her in the morning. She could take no more guilt. Already she was cracking from it.

"You don't need that," he said gently as he caught sight of her expression. She clearly hadn't expected that.

"Come downstairs with me for a bit."

He turned and walked away, his body burning and hard, licking her flavour from his lips. To his relief he heard her light steps behind him.

Edward turned on the single light over the kitchen table and pulled out a stool for her. She settled herself so wearily, looking so thoroughly ashamed and defeated that he massaged her shoulders for a minute or two, humming to himself.

He carefully combed her hair into some kind of order and twisted it a couple of times.

He circled to the other side of the table, to stop himself from touching her, and leaned against the bench.

"Can't you sleep?"

She shook her head, not meeting his eye, the icy cold air in the room making her shiver.

"No, me neither." He did what she needed most. He pretended that nothing had just happened.

He took down plates and jammed bread in the toaster, self conscious as he felt her eyes watch his every move, though every time he looked back at her she was examining her hands. Two mugs- blackest of black coffee for him, for her the weird minty tea he knew she liked.

Under the light over the bench, she looked like someone in an interrogation room.

Don't push her, he warned himself. She's tired enough to confess to things she might not mean.

"Something on your mind?" he enquired, making her jump.

She let out a shaky breath. "You could say that." She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes.

"Tell me about it," he offered, leaning against the side of the sink. "What's happened?"

"I… can't talk to you about this," she said softly. She risked a glance at him.

"You can tell me anything," he argued. At her doubtful look, still not quite meeting his gaze, he pressed on. "I'm still your best friend," he said, and she let out a shaky breath.

"This is… too big."

"Is it the apartment? Michael spilled that already." He kept his voice mild.

She looked genuinely surprised. There was a flash of horror behind her eyes as if she was re-remembering this, and it made the shadows settle even more harshly on her face. She was cracking, he told himself again as she bowed her head.

_She's breaking_, he thought, his heart hurting for her.

"I'm sorry if I went too far today," he said carefully, unable to resist, leaning on the bench on one elbow and squeezing some of the wire tensions in her neck. "I lose my control where you're concerned. I'm sorry." He rested his cheek against the top of her head and sighed heavily.

"And I'm sorry I thought you'd left," she said tiredly. "It seems that Rose has more faith in you than I do." He thought he caught a faint tinge of something like jealousy in her tone.

He mulled this over as the toaster interrupted them. He was glad of the distraction and he framed his words carefully as he buttered the toast.

"I probably deserve it," he said kindly. "I've been such a shit, over the years. I'm not surprised you don't think much of me."

She winced and shook her head. "I should have known you'd never leave Carlisle."

She looked at him. "So you're definitely staying with him?"

He passed her a plate and her mug, and gestured for her to follow him. Putting aside her question for now, he smiled at her, the rare crinkles appearing for a split second.

"Sorry I don't really cook. I can't make anything more than toast or sandwiches."

They went down the hallway, into the dark, cold sitting room. He guided her to the armchair.

Edward threw an armful of wood into the fireplace with little ceremony and flicked several lit matches in afterwards. If it had been Carlisle or Emmett, they would have carefully constructed the fire, giving it what it needed to burn long and successfully. Kindling and the heavier pieces.

Edward just lit it, without worrying if it could burn for a sustained period. He'd make it burn.

He took the couch opposite, and it seemed in that moment that all was as it had been. Perhaps, Bella thought, the last five days had played out only in her mind. All she needed was her copy of Wuthering Heights and time would effectively be rewound.

But her body did not believe this, and hummed for him relentlessly. Fire did beautiful things to his eyes and skin, and all neutral conversation topics were vaporised as he lay down on the couch, his plate of toast on his stomach.

She dragged the tip of her tongue over her dry bottom lip, and watched his eyes flick down to her mouth.

She examined the thick buttered toast and balanced her mug on the arm of the chair.

"Yes, I'm going to stay here," Edward said, watching her curl into a ball, feeling strangely pleased as she began to eat.

"For how long?" she asked.

He paused. "As long as I'm needed."

"You'll be out of work for a while," she pointed out.

He shrugged and shook his head, clearly not bothered.

"Bella. Please think about staying."

Her lack of answer made him retreat inwardly a little, and he decided to change the subject.

"So what were you coming to tell me, just now?" he asked between mouthfuls. At her confused look he reminded her, "You were opening my bedroom door just now."

Be her friend tonight, he reminded himself. Just be her friend. Don't beg her to end your misery.

"I just… needed to talk." She put her plate on the floor and warmed her fingers on her mug. "I feel like I'll never sleep again. How can I?" she mused to herself. "My conscience is killing me tonight."

Edward considered this. "You know Michael is going to make you choose. Maybe even tomorrow," he said, balancing his plate on the sofa's arm. He took a mouthful of coffee, judged her reaction.

She merely nodded, her eyes unsurprised. "Yes."

He leaned forward and said without thinking, "If he had any decency, he wouldn't push you at a time like this,"

Her laugh startled them both. "That's rich, coming from you."

He scowled to cover his nerves. "I won't force you into making a decision."

At her doubtful eyebrow raise, he bit his toast and looked away.

"You've just asked me to stay here," she pointed out.

"For Dad." he said stiffly. He took a deep breath. "And for me. When Michael asks you tomorrow, please just say you're staying here."

"You've just done it again. You say you're not pressuring me, but then you ask me anyway. How can I make this decision?" she said, her tone desperate. "I don't get any truth from you. Even now."

The hopelessness of their standoff made the gap between their chairs feel like an uncrossable expanse.

She let her eyes drift over his beautiful skin.

"The connection we have is wasted on us. I feel like I can never get close enough to touch you. To truly touch you. To understand what motivates you." Her eyes levelled on his.

He felt it brewing. He saw her muster her courage and the flash of determination in her eyes.

He knew the question before she opened her mouth.

"Where did you go?" She asked. "When we left each other behind, where did you go? Where have you been living?"

"I went everywhere," he said with some effort.

Bella blinked, her annoyance plain. She began to stand up. "I'm going to bed."

He waved her down.

"I'm sorry. But it's true. Since you left me, I've been everywhere. Well, nearly everywhere. I've been to fucking gorgeous places, but I've also been to little pieces of hell." He winced as he remembered something, and she felt a pang as she remembered the photographs she'd seen.

She sank down slowly, the hairs on her arms rising as she assessed his face carefully. Honesty. This was a new expression on him, and it suited him infinitely more than his others.

"I've wandered around a lot," he mused. "For too long." His gaze caught hers.

"But come here. I can't tell you about it when you're so far away." He hauled himself up and gestured at the other end of the sofa.

"Come here, darling," he said softly. "Please come here."

She relented after a moment of obvious indecision. She picked up her mug and crossed to sit on the other end of the couch. He tangled their legs together.

The fire flared.

"Tell me how you ended up in a war." Her voice was blurry with tiredness, and as she lay back against the cushions her eyes became unfocused.

He started, his voice slow as he chose his words carefully. He hoped he sounded braver than he felt.

"Well, I started out doing any work I could get. I did catalogues and weddings, and then as I built a reputation I did black and white portraits of rich people's daughters and some minor magazine work."

He slid further down to get comfortable, noting the stiffening of her shoulders.

"And when you got sick of sleeping with catalogue models, and bridesmaids, and rich people's daughters….?" Hurt coloured her tone, and he linked their fingertips.

Edward sighed. "I won't lie. I did. I used a lot of girls, and I let them use me. When I got really-" here, he paused delicately- "lonely, I did try to connect with someone else. I even attempted having a girlfriend now and then."

As he felt their fingerprints press together, he looked into her eyes and remembered with a numb kind of detachment of the interchangeable girls who had wanted his face, or his connections; aspiring models who wanted a free portfolio. All wanted to trap him, to tie him to them, and it had made him twist out of their grasp.

He hated to, but he also thought of the countless mornings of untangling his clothes off floors and silently leaving apartments and hotels. She needed to know.

He tried to ignore her sickened groan, and he circled his fingertips soothingly against hers.

"Nothing lasted long. I wanted to learn how to commit, or how to connect. But I couldn't. There was always something wrong. There was nothing but deafening silence when I laid my hands on them. In a way it was a relief."

She turned her face away so he couldn't see her expression, but he knew he was hurting her.

"So, after couple of years my work was becoming well known. People suddenly knew who I was. I was partying, I was sleeping with a lot of women, and I was _never_ alone." He felt sick as she closed her eyes, an echoing pain inside him. He stretched a little and took her hand more firmly.

He could feel the tremor of tension running through her. She hated this story. She was afraid he was about to say something terrible, and again he regretted that he'd hurt this girl enough to make her expect the worst from him.

He had done so much damage.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he crooned as a tear slid down her cheek, and forced himself to purge it all to her, every word.

"Every time I heard your name it was like a… slice, or an ache. Ma probably knew, but she kept telling me anyway." He paused, and laughed unexpectedly.

"She could be just as manipulative as I was sometimes. Like, she would even tell me about your dates, how you were starting to see different guys, until I'd beg her to stop."

Bella shook her head. "I only ever went on one or two dates."

Edward's face was abruptly furious at the memory. "She'd laugh. She hated me being away, and she tried to use my jealousy lure me back to you. It backfired on her, because it strengthened my resolve."

"Your resolve? " Bella cut in, wiping her cheek furiously. "Resolve to… what? Forget me? Replace me?"

"I'm trying to explain," he said in a strained tone. He was not used to talking like this. He struggled to find the words to articulate his thoughts.

"I hated people trying to get to know me. No one would ever understand me like you do, and I didn't want them to. What we have is untouchable to me. I think that women knew pretty quickly that I was…"

He pressed her hand meaningfully, and the bittersweet sensation washed through her.

_Yearning. _

"So, I took a job where no one cared who I was." He thought for a few moments.

"In a conflict, everyone is too busy either running from their real lives, or removed from their families to do a job, and it just suited where I was in my own life perfectly. The stress is the only thing that's kept me going for this long. That sounds bizarre, probably. But the adrenalin would kick in and suddenly I was able to run from you, properly run from you."

Her hand tightened on his. "But why? Why were you so determined to run from me? Why couldn't you just come back to me?"

"Ok, I'll rephrase. I could run from what I'd done to you." He sighed.

"Everything was hollow for me. Whenever I talked to Esme, she told me _everything_ about you. How you were doing so well, you'd graduated; you'd gotten a job doing the court reporting." His eyes glinted in remembrance, his expression darkening.

He dropped his tone, and suddenly the conversation took on the tone of a true confession.

"Bella, I wanted to see you so badly. Once you settled into Portland, I knew where you lived. Of course I knew where you were. I knew the exact place on the Earth that you slept on every night, after a year or two of not being sure, and it was a luxury, but it was torture. A million times I nearly booked flights. I remember one time, I told my agent that I couldn't go straight over from the Middle East to Africa to start on a new assignment, but changed my mind overnight and called her back."

He ploughed onwards, his words coming out in a rush.

"I just knew how much I'd fucked up most of your life. And I didn't know if you ever wanted to see me again. Even walking into this house a couple of days ago, seeing your car in the drive, I could barely do it. I was a coward, I know that. But I was never without you entirely. I made sure I was never alone. The photos of you were just something I couldn't part with."

Bella cut in. "But I still don't understand why you would run from me. I've never hurt you, or broken your heart."

She struggled into a more upright position, pulling her knees up to her chest.

"I'm not telling you this to hurt you. I want you to understand me again." He sat up too, sitting cross legged, and breathed deeply. He caught a thick curl of her hair, playing with it idly, and then took her hands in his.

"I have fought my fate for as long as I can. I've fought it longer and harder than I can bear." At this, his voice grew pained, and Bella tightened her fingers on his.

He closed his eyes. "I didn't want to be tied to you, just like you don't want me now."

The loneliness in his voice broke her heart a little.

"This weird thing between us has shaped every part of my life. My job, my… living arrangements. I'd made a promise to myself a long time ago and couldn't break it."

Bella steeled herself. "Tell me what the big deal is about where you live? Why will it hurt me? I can't take much more hurt than this. I swear, if you're married with kids…"

He sighed deeply. "There are no wives, no children, no skeletons in my closet."

He began pressing kisses to her cheekbones as he spoke.

"This is my truth and the one thing I've stuck to all these years. I promised myself I would never live anywhere without you."

"You don't live _anywhere?_" Bella breathed. "How is that possible?"

Edward pulled back laughed humourlessly. "Easier than you'd think, given my lifestyle."

The first glint of pity in her eyes made him drop her hands abruptly and he slid back to the end of the couch, out of reach.

"And why would that hurt me?" Bella whispered, reeling inwardly. "I don't understand." She shivered and moved without thought, missing his warmth, his proximity. She lay down onto his torso and hugged him tightly.

"Because I've been sleeping in motels and air hostesses beds, and on couches and waking up with my wallet stolen. I've slept in cabs and spent far, far too many nights sleeping on fucking army cots." She made a small sob, and he cradled her head against his chest.

"I was such a coward. I've hurt you for years because I didn't come for you. To apologize. If you'd turned me away, I would have been completely destroyed. Completely. I was a mess for so many years."

He realised that he was sounding as cryptic and evasive as ever, and he struggled to define his rationale.

"I just had to trust that we'd come together... so I drifted. And I looked at my photographs of you, and felt your absence like a lost limb and just… lost track of time. Without you to ground me, to pin me in place, I just floated off a little. I was ashamed, and I was trying to do right by you."

Bella began shaking her head.

He said slowly, gently, "I've always known that my kind of love just… crushes people. I've always known how hard it's been for you to bear. So I just let you live a little longer."

He untangled her hair from her eyes and wiped her tears with the back of his thumb.

"Even now, I'm so scared of dragging you under again. I'll ruin you. I take your silence and your privacy. I make you feel unsafe. I just wanted you to live free from what has always been a hell for you."

"You call that living?" Bella said, anger ripping through her. "You think it was your choice to make?"

He stilled. "I'm sorry."

"You called me, over the years," she said, "and it always left me feeling used and sleazy. You couldn't just tell me how you felt? That you missed me, that you had some kind of feelings for me that weren't just about your ownership of me?"

He looked at her steadily. "I'm not trying to justify those calls, but I just couldn't hold out any longer. I needed you, and it sometimes overwhelmed me. Late at night, when I couldn't settle for anyone less than you, when I was drinking or too tired." He grimaced. "If I'd seen something terrible, really terrible, and I just couldn't keep a leash on myself any more. I'm sorry I made you feel used."

She felt his fingers slide into her hair.

"Tell me how you feel now." He said. "You know what my life has been like since we went in separate directions. Sex, alcohol and money. Nothing more constructive than that. I've got nothing to give you," he added as an afterthought. "I've got nothing."

"The photographs you take are important. They're documenting history," she cut in.

"They're all just photographs of me searching for you," he said desperately. "Can't you see?"

He began breathing faster underneath her. "I've got no home, or any kind of stability for you. You can't live the way I do. You aren't going to choose me. You probably shouldn't."

She began to cry again. "That's my decision. You're not leaving until I let you."

"I won't," he breathed. "Why are you crying?"

"Everyone I love leaves me…" she pressed her face into his sharp collarbone. "My mother, my father, you, Esme… I lose everyone I love. I can't bring myself to love Michael completely. It just gives too much power, and I can't handle any more hurt…"

To her surprise, he did not snarl at the mention of Michael.

"Be brave, little bird," he whispered, and something inside her broke completely.

"How dare you? You abandoned me. You never said sorry."

She began hitting him, most of her blows missing, and when she landed a good slap on his cheek, like the first day in the field, he barely blinked. "Let it out," he urged. "You're right. I've done terrible things."

Her tears turned to sobs, and she clutched at his smooth shoulders, pushing him down roughly, the hot tears running down her neck. "Why would you leave it until it's too late?" she cried. "It's too late, and I'll lose you again."

"I will never leave you," he said with conviction as she bowed her head. "Never again."

She shook her head and her hair began to stick to her wet cheeks. "You will. If I stay with Michael, of course you will. I'll lose you."

He shrugged with some dignity. "If you decide that he is who you want, I will deal with it."

She laughed bitterly even as she stroked his pinkened cheek.

"That's because you're certain that you will win this game."

"This is no game for me," he said. "And no, I can't tell what you'll decide. This is my life. But it's your life too. And if you decide that life with Michael—" here, he did sneer- "is what you want, then I will sacrifice."

She blinked. "What do you mean? What will you do?" She clutched at him. "Don't do anything stupid."

He snorted. "Don't be silly. I will make the biggest sacrifice I can, and it will be as good as killing myself."

His eyes were serious. "I will never leave you. Even if you marry him, I'll stay in your life, for the rest of your life. You will see me every day, if you want to. I will be at your wedding. I'll say a fucking toast."

His voice had so much violence in it that it took her a moment to realise a single tear had streaked down his cheek.

"I'll pay the price for everything I've done to you. I can understand why you can't move on from it. But I don't understand why you can't take a chance on me."

She stroked away his tear.

"I'm not strong enough," she confessed. "And I'm afraid."

He wrapped his arms around her, and as she cried into his chest, he said softly, "So am I. A life together is terrifying. It would be impossibly hard. We'd start to melt together, into one person. I'd guard you from every man on the planet. We'd have absolutely no secrets or privacy from each other."

She closed her eyes as his fingers stroked against her scalp briefly before his hands settled on her waist. Her hands were balled in the sleeves of her top, and when he spoke, a shiver ran through her.

"It scares the shit out of me. But I'll try to be brave," he said.

"Touch me," he invited huskily. "Put your hands on me." His words were blatantly erotic, but when she looked up at him, there was no trace of seduction or motive.

She shook her head. "I need to stop doing that."

"I know what it's like," he said reasonably. "You want to." Even as he spoke, his own hands were gripping her waist, his fingers digging in slightly as though trying to get to her flesh through the fabric.

She stopped resisting what she wanted so badly.

_Show me what it was like without me,_ she thought fearfully as she pressed her face against his throat.

It reminded her of lying on the beach, eyes closed against the bright sun, watching the odd kaleidoscopes of colour and shape behind her eyelids.

He sighed deeply beneath her and let it out with a rumbling groan, and for the first time, their connection was clear and unclouded, and she felt what he thought.

It was a pervasive, sensual feeling, his thoughts and images slowly flowing across her mind's page like a waking dream.

She was seeing a fiercely beautiful woman crying, begging him to love her the way she deserved, while he stood by a floor to ceiling window, turning a decorative globe around with his fingers to touch where Bella was in the States.

She winced.

_Sorry, sorry…._ he thought, and she followed his thoughts down the darkened trail to vignettes of isolation; being asked by soldiers on tour if he had a girlfriend or wife back home and compulsively lying, telling them fanciful stories about Bella and the false life they shared.

The memory hurried onwards and she felt his embarrassment at this. Now he recalled lying in a darkened hospital ward, putting his hand on the telephone to call her, but forcing himself to stop.

The sight of her diamond ring, and the pain worse than being shot.

Bella lifted her hands and ran them up the sides of his t shirt, one thumb stroking his scar and he closed his eyes and stretched in pleasure at her touch. He finally felt at peace, and as her hands slid over him soothingly his mind began to blur. His arms wrapped around her.

"Nothing to hide behind now," he said under his breath, and let his mind wander as sleep began to edge closer.

Bella propped herself up on her elbow, watching him fall asleep, and asked the only question she'd ever truly had for him as she dropped into the black hole of exhaustion alongside him.

_Do you love me? What kind of love is this?_

The sensation of falling was so dizzying that she tipped forward onto him, her hands in his clothes and her face on his throat.

*o*o*o*o*o*o

She dreamed vividly, the most beautiful and frightening dream of her entire life.

In this dream, he had never stopped loving her, not for a single second of the thousands of days that they had been apart. The love had been like a fever, burning so high that there was no strength to fight it, though he did try.

In this dream, hers was the face he compared all others to; hers were the eyes he searched for as he looked through the lens, and as his desperation grew, he slowly began seeing the world only in terms of light and shade.

She was his imaginary friend walking beside him. Hundreds of unsent postcards ripped up and scattered fluttered through the air like petals.

She was the point on the compass, the star in the sky, the emergency flare. Joining the dots on maps sketched out her face.

Pale flowers on the roadside were the colour of her skin, her eyes were caught in the gleam of dark topaz jewel inlaid in a ring for sale in a raucous bazaar. He bought it to stop anyone else from owning it, and carried it across a continent before throwing it into a river in a fit of fury and frustration.

The hint of her perfume as he passed an open doorway, seeing through the dark archway to an overgrown garden filled with ragged red blooms. She saw the disappointed eyes of women who, once they saw past the handsome mask, realised that his heart was not there at all.

An old fortune teller, frightening in her intensity, caught him by the sleeve to tell him he was blessed, but cursed, and he needed to decide which.

Bella dreamt that her name had been stamped with every footstep he had taken along miles of sand.

She shimmered on the horizon to quench his parched heart.

It was her name he prayed to instead of God.

*o*o*o*o*o*o

Michael tied his left sneaker tight, and strapped his iPod to his arm. He thought ruefully of the large amount of cheese he had consumed yesterday at lunch, and looked outside at the thin light of dawn. No point in disrupting his routine. He wasn't going to allow this place to rule him for one second longer.

He stepped into the hall, and thought to tap on Bella's door, to look in on her. Her door was open, and he frowned in concern, turning to the bathroom but could hear no running water. He looked to Edward's room, and was not sure if he should be relieved or suspicious that his door was open too.

He jogged down the stairs and looked into each room he passed, hunting for her.

*o*o*o*o*o*o

"Wake up," Emmett's voice was hushed.

Bella opened one eye. "What time is it?" she croaked, horribly dehydrated, her face sore from crying. She pushed herself up hastily off him. He was yawning and complaining, his hands grasping at her waist.

She shook her head, trying to grasp at the edges of the incredible dream she had just had.

"Where's Michael?" she said automatically, not noticing how Edward blanched.

"He's gone out for a jog," Emmett said. "I saw him leave from the window."

Bella visibly relaxed, until he added, "He left out the front door."

She covered her mouth in horror, looking past Emmett at the narrow corridor. She didn't have to say it aloud. Michael would have walked directly past this room.

"Wait —" Edward said, grasping at her as she struggled away, catching only the corner of her sleeve as she stood. For a long moment, both men watched her as she stood in front of the fireplace, the ashes long gone cold. She passed her hands over her face, and looked up at the ceiling.

"Bella, you're in no frame of mind to be making any decisions right now," Emmett said.

"But I'm going to have to, regardless." She straightened her clothes a little.

There was a long silence.

"What am I doing?" she said eventually, her voice breaking. "I've treated him so badly."

"He'll recover," Edward said.

"You're so cruel, Edward," she said in astonishment. "So cruel." She twisted her hair away from her face, and her eyes were dusky with pain.

"I have to be." Edward glanced at Emmett.

"I'm breaking his heart, Edward," Bella said. "I need to talk to him."

She walked from the room.

"What about me? My heart?" Edward called, but her departing footsteps broke into a run, ascending the stairs, and she did not answer him.

There was a long silence. Emmett looked down at Edward's bowed head, and reached down to smooth his nightmare hair before stopping himself.

"Yes, so what about your heart?" Emmett asked instead, sitting himself heavily into the armchair opposite Edward. There was no trace of sarcasm in his tone, and Edward scrubbed his palms over his eyes roughly.

"It's getting shredded." Edward said finally. "Please, no therapy session."

"You don't want to hear this, but I'm going to tell you anyway," Emmett began.

Edward sat up straighter. "Did you not hear what I just fucking said?"

Emmett ignored him. "She might not choose you." Emmett leaned forward, and touched Edward's arm as he slumped. "She might. She's got feelings for you. She's probably in love with you. But she might not choose you. You need to be prepared for that."

"She doesn't love him." Edward said, almost inaudibly.

"There are different kinds of love," Emmett replied. "Haven't you ever just tried to find an easy, uncomplicated relationship?"

Edward picked his fingernail. "Yes," he said reluctantly. "For years I have."

Emmett shrugged apologetically. "Well, there you are then."

Edward began to scrape his hair into some semblance of order, his eyes screwed tightly shut.

"Tell me again why you want her." Emmett kept his voice light.

"Because I'm hers. I've always _been_ hers. And only hers." Edward's head was in his hands now, and he did not see Emmett's smile.

"You realise that on the night I arrived, you told me she was yours?" Emmett said. "I was wondering when the epiphany would come, brother of mine."

"I wish she'd have her own fucking epiphany," Edward said darkly.

"Have you told her the truth about how you feel?"

Edward was silent.

"Have you told her that you love her?"

Edward's breath came out in a hiss. "You sound like Ma. She's been saying that to me for years."

"Well?"

"She's always known I do." Edward said defensively. "How could she not?"

"Then why can't you just say it?"

Edward shifted awkwardly. "It's hard. If I tell her, and she still doesn't choose me, I can't… come back from that."

Emmett stood, and put his hands in his pockets. "It's going to take courage to lay yourself on the line for her. But she's worth it." He looked around, and remembered he was supposed to be bringing Rose some tea and toast in bed. He turned to go.

"Edward, you of all people know that sometimes to get what you want, to seize an opportunity and create something extraordinary, you have to take a risk."

*o*o*o*o*o*o

When Michael spoke from the kitchen doorway, his tone was icy fury.

"I need to speak with you. Now."

"Sure, come outside." Edward rose from the kitchen bench, seemingly unperturbed, carrying his coffee mug. "I don't want Bella to hear."

Edward walked out through the laundry, giving Michael no choice but to follow. He was still dressed in his running gear, sweat trickling, rage mottling his complexion. He had a muddied white sneaker, and noticing this amused Edward and distracted him from the confrontation that was looming.

"Firstly, you've got a hell of a nerve," Michael hissed. "I saw you both, asleep on the couch. I don't know how you lured her down there, but I won't tolerate your shit any longer."

Edward stood, looking over the fields, an immovable black shape, and as he swallowed a mouthful of his coffee, he slanted a withering look at Michael.

"She's marrying me." Michael's voice rose, vibrating with anger.

"It's entirely possible that she will," Edward said mildly, as though discussing the weather. "I'm not going to try to force her into anything. She's not coping right now."

Michael cut in. "Don't act like you know her so much better than I do. I've been living with her for years now. I know every little thing about her, much more than you do."

Edward smiled bitterly. "I doubt that. Did you know about me, then?"

There was a silence while Michael blustered furiously.

Edward spoke again. "I'm out of line. If our positions were changed, I'd be killing you right now. But you don't understand what's always been between her and me."

"Oh, what? A bit of flirting and an unrequited crush?" Michael was incredulous. "Let it go, man."

Edward's knuckles whitened on his mug, but he continued looking into the middle distance, soothing himself with images of her hair on his pillow, her tears drying on his shirt.

Michael spoke again.

"I am leaving here, tomorrow morning, and she is coming with me. She's not going to throw away the life she has with me. She's responsible; she knows what the right choice is. She's matured," Michael paused, as if to imply that Edward had not.

"She's not stupid enough to throw herself away on a high school crush. You'll just use her and throw her away."

Edward scowled dangerously. "I will not," he warned. "Tread carefully."

Michael sharpened his tone. "That's all you've ever done. Hurt her. I've never hurt her."

Edward faced Michael, and for a moment, the air shimmered with violence.

"Have you ever loved someone so much that you wished you didn't?" Edward said, exasperated.

"Have you ever wanted to be with someone so intensely that you almost feel afraid for them, because you know that you cannot do anything less than eat them alive? And you spend every minute trying to hold back, to just nibble away at their edges, just to sustain yourself? Feeling completely starving?"

Michael sneered. "You're making absolutely no sense."

Edward spoke as though he was explaining something to a particularly dim child.

"I apologize to you. I do. I mean it. But she has always been mine. I guess I can't blame you," he said, his eyes glinting. "If I met her a hundred times, in a hundred lives, I'd fall in love with her too. Every time. I guess I'm glad she's passed the time with someone who's taken care of her."

"Oh, so you're thanking me? Fuck you. I looked after her, all right." Michael dropped his voice until it was barely audible.

"I was first. You know what I'm saying. It took a long time, given her trust issues, but I was her _first_."

Edward laughed even as he reached over and took a handful of Michael's collar.

"It doesn't matter who was first, what matters is who is last."

Time exploded into fast forward, and things began to spin out of control.

Michael shook himself free. "How do you suggest she is going to fit into your self absorbed little life? She can't just trail around behind you all over the world."

Edward blinked incredulously. "In my experience, the photographer follows the journalist. God, you're a complete idiot."

"She's not a journalist," Michael argued. "She's a court reporter. There's a hell of a difference." His voice had a slightly disdainful overtone that made Edward bristle.

"She's trained as a journalist." Edward tilted his head. "She's capable of living any life she wants to, and so am I. I will live any life she wants to live."

"She will fulfil her commitments."

Both Michael and Edward jolted at the sounds of footsteps. Bella stepped out from the laundry doorway, chalk white.

"How long have you been there?" Edward said, his face unreadable.

Michael's voice was acid. "And you. You've got some explaining to do."

"I'm sorry," she said simply, her voice quiet and steady.

"What am I supposed to think? I see my fiancée asleep _on_ another man?" He took a step towards her. "How do you think that makes me feel?" He stepped to her, grasped her arm and she flinched back.

"Don't speak to her like that." Edward's voice was dangerous. "If you hurt her, I will hurt you more."

Michael jabbed a finger at him.

"You stay out of it. This no longer concerns you." Still, he dropped her arm. He narrowed his eyes at Bella. "I am willing to forget this. I'm leaving in the morning, and I hope that you will be leaving with me." He pulled down his shirt, which Edward had twisted.

"I'll come to the funeral, out of respect to your father, but I'm not spending any more time in this house. I'm staying at the hotel in Port Angeles tonight."

At her look, he took her aside slightly, turning his back on Edward, and sharpened his words.

"This isn't _my_ family. I don't need to play the polite fiancé anymore, not after all I've been through. I don't plan on seeing these people again after today. And I don't think you should, either."

Edward burst out laughing, and wandered further into Bella's eyeline over Michael's shoulder. "He's forbidding you to see me?" He shook his head.

Bella took a deep breath and blurted, "I had sex with Edward."

"When you were teenagers?" Michael muttered the question under his breath.

"No, two nights ago." She kept the eye contact and awaited his verdict. "It's only right that you should know."

Veins stood out on Michael's forehead, and he turned on his heel to face Edward.

The look that passed between them was murderous.

Edward shrugged. "I told you it mattered who was last." He looked past Michael to Bella and was relieved to see she appeared composed.

Michael spoke again.

"I am willing to forget this. I will never mention this again." He opened his eyes, which were very blue and very cold, and he locked eyes with Bella.

"But you will never speak to him again, or see him again."

Bella looked at Edward.

"No ultimatum from me, Bella. You'll do what you think is right for you, and I will live with it."

He seemed to be trying to say something else, and hesitated for a moment while trying to phrase it before giving up. "I'd like you to stay here, for Dad's sake, but don't feel you need to stay for mine."

"Another manipulative tactic," Michael commented.

Edward ignored him. "I have to go and be with Dad. In case you've forgotten, we're cremating my mother today."

"While we're all being honest, I couldn't give a fuck about your mother," Michael burst out. "This is your family, not mine, and not Bella's." He turned away and crossed to stand on the edge of the patio, unable to believe his civility had eroded so quickly. He winced as the echo of his awful words rang in his own ears.

Edward stalked to Bella, looking like he wanted to punch the brickwork, but instead kissed her tenderly on the forehead.

"Well, continuing that vein of honesty, it was more than sex." He looked into her eyes and laid his palm across her heart.

"It was art. Perfection. It was a near-death experience."

"You'll have another one in a minute," Michael said through gritted teeth.

Edward snorted. "You surely must know that I could destroy you." His smile vanished and he glanced quickly to Bella. "But you're safe… for now."

Michael tightened his fist so hard that his knuckle could be heard audibly cracking. "Fuck off."

"Now, now, Mike, be civil," Edward cautioned.

"Let me talk to Michael," Bella said firmly. When Edward hesitated, she nodded. "I'll be fine. Go."

Edward paused a moment before disappearing into the house.

Michael stood shivering as the wind picked up, drying his sweat. Before he had a chance to say another word, she held up her hand.

"You can say what you like about me," Bella said, her tone clipped. "What I've done to you is terrible. I apologise to you for everything that's happened."

His eyes glinted meanly, and he began to speak but she cut him off.

"But never say that this is not my family. You will never stop me seeing them. Any of them."

She turned on her heel and headed upstairs to begin preparing for the final release of Esme.

* * *

**A/N: Reviewers get a lovely piece of buttered toast. **


	21. Chapter 20: Patience

**Chapter Twenty****: Patience**

**A/N: **

**My warmest love to you from beautiful, beautiful Paris! I snuck away and found an internet connection and gladly present you with the next installment that has haunted my dreams, given me nightmares, and challenged me to the point of insanity.**

**My sincere apologies that I have taken so long to complete this chapter. I have struggled every day with it, and whilst it hasn't been easy, I'm glad I've ****persevered. Thank you for all your encouragement. I've gotten the nicest messages, and the kindest support. I really appreciate it that you are interested in what I'm writing. If the formatting is a little off or something, please forgive me. It's too hard to tidy it up in the limited time I have.  
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**It's been a long time, so please feel free to take all the time you need and perhaps read the last chapter to remember where in the hell I left you dangling last. **

**Thank you bookbag**** for my sanity, carrie3101 for being a sweetheart and thank you to this chapter's guest beta gutterfairy. It is an unenvyable task. (Unenvyable... is that a word? Is that the right spelling? I rest my case.) xo  
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Calmly, calmly, calmly. Shhhhhhhhh.

Count to ten.

Count to twenty.

Count to….

This is not the time to panic, he chided himself. _Keep a hold of yourself_.

He tried his best to sit motionless in the colourless chapel, the underlying smell of beeswax furniture polish layered over the mahogany and dust making him nauseous. Her name rang in every heavy echo of his heart. Every single beat was her name. It is how it always was and how it would always be, for as long as this blood threaded through him.

He could be alone for years, he suddenly realised in horror. Decades. The rest of his life without her. He was doomed in the most beautiful way. Time abruptly gaped open, a yawning chasm, and he found himself gripping the edge of the church pew like he was at risk of falling away, vanishing into the dark.

Panic blistered his stomach and her name drummed faster. She was being pulled away by a tide, he could _feel _her drawing away_,_ and he was completely powerless to stop her. She would leave him; she no doubt had to, even though he was sure a part of her yearned to stay with him. He was lucky he'd had her for as long as he did, actually. A blink of an eye. Never enough. A lifetime, a moment.

He would be haunted forever by everything she had touched, all that she had been to him. His bed was engulfed in her scent. Snapshots of her cheek against his pillow flickered behind his eyelids.

He was finding out the hard way how awful it was to sleep without her. When he'd finally been able to sleep last night, he'd been pressed down flat by the weight of this love, barely breathing. In his dreams, he vacillated between technicolour nightmares of what her loss would do to him, and luscious dove-grey hallucinations of her remaining with him always. Whilst his soul could howl that an army could not tear her away from him, in truth, he knew it was not up to him. If she didn't want to be caught, then he was alone now in every way that mattered.

The need to touch her- her hand, her fingers, just for warmth that he could not find- was splitting him in half, and though he appeared outwardly calm, save his shaking breaths, inside he was desperate and wanted to crawl to her.

How could she leave him behind, here, in this place, alone?

Carlisle raised his eyes to the high, narrow windows. The lack of flowers, or colour, or friends seemed obscene, and he was trying not to let this make the pain worse, but it was spreading through him like a toothache. He was a ship slowly running aground, inch by inch.

He allowed his head to drop forward a little, until all he could see was the first mark, then the next, black on black, as his tears fell on his suit pants.

"Dearly beloved," the minister began after clearing his throat, and Edward's hand appeared in Carlisle's peripheral vision, jolting him back into himself a little.

_I'm not alone. _

Carlisle gamely took a breath. He took his son's hand, and their roughened palms pressed together and their fingers linked loosely. The tightness in his throat eased and was replaced by the squeeze of his heart as he felt Edward's deep sigh.

Carlisle blinked out another tear ruthlessly, composed himself and lifted his head. He regarded the minister with as much benign courtesy as he could muster, as it began.

The minister was clearly taking creative licence with this funeral. It probably wasn't common to have only six people in attendance, to have no readings or music. He was probably giving the abbreviated kind of funeral more suited to a drifter found in a thawing snow bank, rather than a woman who had been loved more than heaven and earth.

It was impossible to believe Esme had actually wanted her funeral to be this way, and as Carlisle quickly glanced at the tiny white snowdrop he had put on her plain coffin, he felt a small moment of defiance. He could just imagine Esme's mock-frown, which always turned into a smile, and then into a laugh.

"No flowers, no friends. Just my family, and just get it over with," she'd said again and again as she'd laid in bed, her cheek against his palm, her velvet eyes deep with the surety of what she wanted, and what she did not. "I don't want everyone I know to be crammed into a church, wearing black. I've done it before, for people I loved, and it was always so tragic that it overlaid my memories of them a little. I do not want that, Carlisle, so don't let that happen."

And of course he had promised her faithfully. He could deny her nothing as she had slowly unraveled over the weeks and months.

But when he'd sat watching over her lifeless body on the night she'd died, he had already been mentally planning to defy her wishes. He'd wanted to fill a more beautiful church with her friends and the soft waxy scents of candles and lilies. Stained glass and choirs, the voices of her loved ones, stories of her life and poetry written by souls just like Esme hundreds of years ago. He itched to write a list. He opened his mouth countless times to call for his children to come and begin work on the tribute that his heart had sketched.

But final wishes were final for a reason, and he had turned back away from the door to watch her, marveling at her stillness, the way that death seemed to only be the deepest sleep. The fires that had burned inside her had faded out until her skin was as cold as glass, and he was left in ashes.

She'd never really seemed afraid, as the sweeping shadows slid towards her over the months they'd had left together. "Do you remember a time before you were born?" Esme had mused once as they lay side by side on their bed, the silence of the empty house almost ringing in their ears. "Think back to a date in history, some historical event before your birth, Carlisle. You weren't twisting and crying from the unfairness of not being in this world to witness it. You'd just waited, suspended in the dark, with no cares, no pain. I imagine being gone to be like that. Just like returning to a nice dark, warm pocket. Back to the waiting place."

Carlisle's whole career had been about beating back the shadows from his patients, allowing them a reprieve from pain, or being taken altogether. He'd wanted to say to her that he could not remember a time before her, but he did not of course, and as the afternoon sun had cooled and she had finally lain sleeping, her breath shuddering, he knew that soon she would be able to wait for him without care, and it would be his turn to suffer.

Even as he'd sat with Edward and the woman from the funeral home in his study, listening to Edward detail the sparse plans Esme had left, Carlisle had ached to interject. There would be nothing of her _there_, he wanted to say.

He caught sight of the coffin again and looked away. He'd been right.

"First Corinthians," the minister began after a frankly awkward pause, and Carlisle inwardly groaned. The poor fellow was probably trying to pad out the service a little. He tried to telegraph with his eyes that it was not necessary. But the minister began reciting the passage from memory, his pale eyes half closed and unfocused.

"If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal."

He cast a glance over the small collection of mourners and added louder, with the surprisingly dramatic timbre of a frustrated thespian

"And if I have prophetic powers, and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am _nothing_." He left the word hanging impressively in the air, and beside Carlisle, Edward and Bella both shifted in their seats uncomfortably.

If she'd been here, Esme would have found that _very_ interesting.

_Carlisle,_ she would have sighed wistfully. _When will they realise that they're in love?_

The minister's face was growing visibly redder by the minute, a rising tide line mottling his neck as he squinted against a weak shaft of light. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the lectern.

Carlisle realised that Esme would have positively enjoyed this. "Isn't he sincere?" she would have whispered under her breath, delight making her breathy. "I'm sure he has a wonderful singing voice. He should have ended up on Broadway, not in God's chorus line."

Biting back a snicker at her naughtiness, Carlisle reconsidered. His first thought hadn't been exactly right. What Esme had loved best in life _was_ here; her family. He twisted his wedding ring to distract himself from the inappropriate urge to laugh. He felt like he was trapped in an absurd dream. Any moment, he would wake up.

Please let me wake up.

He allowed his eyes to drift down along his family, observing their various states of discomfort and distress, wishing he could comfort them somehow.

The pew was polished to a high shine by someone very devout indeed, and all of them were finding it hard to remain seated upright. The fine fabric of their mourning clothes simply had no purchase, and almost in unison they would slide down, lower and lower, until the girls' toes touched the ground and the large men became more horizontal. Simultaneously they would hitch themselves up with their elbows or each other and straighten their backs determinedly. Only to begin the infinitesimal slide down once more.

Edward was on Carlisle's left. He was glaring at the minister, a vein on his temple, as though the man were deliberately antagonising him. While he still held Carlisle's hand in his cool, dry grip, he was clearly agitated, or upset, and his knee jiggled in rapid staccato.

He'd been in this mood for the entire drive to the chapel; restless, brooding, though he was attentive and considerate to his father. His dark charcoal suit threw his skin into pale relief, made him look older; his perpetually ruffled hair scraped into as neat a formation as he could manage. He'd helped Carlisle into the car, and had driven off, giving Bella no option but to ride with Emmett and Rose. Carlisle had seen her small figure on the top stair, her hand raised, wilting, and whilst Edward had only accelerated faster, he had barely taken his eyes from the rear view mirror.

During the short drive, Carlisle had felt like the child, being driven, being taken somewhere. The relief of being cared for, after so many months, years, a lifetime of caring and treating, was something he had not fully processed. It was like letting out a breath that had been held for too long.

Carlisle felt a little odd as he remembered sitting in the passenger seat, watching his son's profile as he drove to this place on the outskirts of town. It was strange how in the shafts of light strobing through the wind-ravaged pines and firs how his own son could look like a stranger, but simultaneously so familiar that it was like looking at his own shadow. Was this what it was to love someone?

The thought had been confusing, and Carlisle had closed his eyes, and twirled the little snowdrop in his fingers idly, its petals just a blurred star of white.

Edward was undoubtedly somehow changed over the past few days. It was as pronounced as a history museum's display of human evolution. Knuckle dragging caveman to this straight-backed man in the tailored suit. But being Edward, he could slip between civilised and savage in the blink of an eye when his heart took over. He oscillated too wildly. Carlisle wondered if that heart were tamed for good, would Edward level out into the kind of man he clearly could be?

"Love is patient, love is kind; love is not jealous or boastful…"

Carlisle's eyes drifted down to Bella who next on the pew, and saw her absently press her hand on Edward's bouncing knee. Obediently, Edward stilled, exhaled in a soft huff, and tried to catch her hand before she tucked it away, largely out of habit, not meaning to be cruel.

Carlisle tried not to smile. Nothing had changed; they had always been like this and they probably always would be. They would fall asleep side by side on the loveseat in his study when they were small, coiled together like ribbons, their synchronized breathing the soundtrack to his afternoons of endless paperwork.

Carlisle had commented that it was virtually the only time they weren't taking turns tormenting each other. Esme had countered that it was the only time they weren't running from, or to, each other. They had both been right.

When they had filed into the church, Bella had tried to slide past Edward to the end of the row; her turn to run. Trying to remain on the fringes was too natural for her and she did it without realising. Edward had always hated when she did this, and unsurprisingly had tugged her down gently beside him. She'd clearly had reservations about that, and had glanced behind herself several times, no doubt watching for Michael's arrival. She was pale and drawn, with a tremor in her hands, but she had the stubborn tilt to her chin. Ever wanting to do the right thing, she was listening to the minister as though there would be a pop quiz afterwards.

There was something different about her too, Carlisle thought in between glances as he gave the appearance of listening. Her lovely fragility had a steel edge. He knew that look. She was digging her heels in. He might have been reading too much into her grave profile, but Carlisle prayed it was Edward she was about to fight for.

As if on cue, Bella slid her hand from under her leg and offered her palm to Edward, who took it instantly, stroking her fingers, rubbing them, reminding Carlisle of how he had stroked the snowdrop.

Their heads tilted together conspiratorially, and although no words were spoken, Edward's face twisted in frustration and he let out a groan so loud that the minister paused. He lost his train of thought momentarily before continuing in a slightly disapproving tone, lancing Edward with a meaningful look as he intoned,

"When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became a man, I gave up childish ways."

It was unmistakably an admonishment- the minister had correctly picked Edward as the one naughty boy in every Sunday school class or choir that he'd ever taught. There was always one. The boy who had a mouse in his pocket or a comic book in his Bible.

Carlisle squeezed Edward's other hand, trying to suppress a smile.

"For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall understand fully, even as I have been fully understood."

Edward's fingers tried to read Bella's goosebumps like Braille, though he was trying as best he could to ignore the soft murmurings of her thoughts.

He told himself he wanted to give her space and privacy, and that he wasn't afraid.

"Afraid?" Bella whispered under her breath.

Carlisle was surprised to see Edward releasing Bella's hand.

"So faith, hope, love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love."

Emmett sat on the other side of Bella, and wore his old black suit like a pair of pyjamas. He gave the minister his full attention, though he glanced to Rose regularly. She was clearly uncomfortable, perched on this plank of wood.

As Bella had done to Edward, Emmett offered his beefy palm to Rose, who took it gratefully as she tried to balance herself, and their heavy baby, on the edge of the pew.

She sighed inwardly. They did not design this seating for pregnant people. She was glancing about herself, the word _why_ almost visible on her slightly parted lips, her blue eyes glazed in tears that this bland funeral could just not prompt her to shed.

It was the Ikea of funerals. It was practically flat packed. It was perfectly serviceable, put together at a moment's notice, and would blend in with millions of others with no discernible differences; it would never become a treasure. Why was it this way? So impersonal and painfully generic?

Esme wasn't about this place, thought Carlisle as he dutifully tuned in to the minister giving a shorthand sketch of Esme's life. Name, birth place, key life achievements, her family left behind. Nothing at all about the poetry she had infused their life with; no mention of her giggling fits or her almost primitive superstition; the way she chased beauty and fate like a child after a bubble.

Her silhouette, backlit by the hall light in the bedroom doorway as she returned from checking the boys during a storm. Half finished books all over the house, sometimes ten at a time, but she always knew where she was up to, and from the closest she'd remove her makeshift bookmark- a feather, a piece of string, and drop back into whichever world she held in her hand. It was impossible to capture her every tiny nuance, every act of generosity and faith that stitched her life's tapestry into something bigger. In a way, it was probably better that the minister did not even try.

All Carlisle knew was that she didn't want to be remembered in a place like this.

"Send me on my way, then get home and have the kind of party that will make me sad I'm not there," Esme had said. "Have the kind of party that could tempt me back, just for a night, and I'll be there. I'll be with you as long as I can."

Carlisle remembered crying into her neck that night, and every night thereafter. He had always taken care to make sure his tears slid quietly, although of course she would have known.

He felt oddly purposeful as he looked forward to tonight. They would call her back to them tonight. A beautiful celebration of the gift of her life, seated in the only kind of church she'd ever worshipped in. Her home.

If only he could have some kind of sign from her tonight.

With a chill in their hearts, they obediently echoed the word Amen, and it was over, thankfully, barely ten minutes after it began.

Carlisle watched in surprise as Edward rose to shake hands with the minister, his serrated dark energy tamped down behind a façade of grim civility. He was taking his role as family spokesperson very seriously it seemed. Emmett, whilst technically older and perhaps more entitled to the role, merely watched his brother with a soft kind of tolerance. Bella watched Edward too, always unaware of her expression when she watched him. A kind of half-fearful fascination.

Love _is_ terrifying, Carlisle mused.

Bella stood, stretching her stiff back. She met Carlisle's gaze; perhaps a little puzzled by his indulgent expression as he watched her. She caught sight of Michael, seated in the back row. Carlisle had been wondering when she would notice the funeral's sixth and last attendee. She dropped her thin black clutch bag in her surprise, and ducked to retrieve it. From Michael's vantage point, she might have looked like she was trying to hide.

"Carlisle, I—" She took his hand, and he smoothed away the wrinkle on her brow with a kiss. She was a grown woman now, although to him she would remind him of the half-orphaned creature that had crept into their house so timidly. She felt like his daughter, his family, in every way. Carlisle had always felt a pang of guilt when he saw how much she loved him. He always felt that he had somehow taken her from Charlie. How could anyone willingly give up anyone so thoroughly, beautifully good? Maybe he'd thought he was doing what was best for her. Maybe he'd known that he had nothing left in him to give her. Poor Charlie. The loss of Renee had….

Destroyed him.

Carlisle swallowed and abruptly hugged Bella, crushing her, wanting to tell her to not freeze herself over like her father had.

"Do exactly what you need to do, sweetie." Carlisle watched her cheeks bloom into pink, and hoped that his train of thought hadn't changed his expression into one of pity. "Do what is right for you. Do the right thing, whatever you think that is." She blinked, and her eyes filled with tears.

"This hurts," she managed, looking around but clearly meaning something else, pressing her clenched fist into her stomach.

She turned to look at Michael sadly, watching him raise a hand in greeting to Carlisle. Carlisle returned the gesture, and smiled at Bella. "He's a nice man," he offered, feeling somehow obliged to give balanced advice.

The words burned in his chest, but it wasn't right to say them. She'd do anything, agree to anything, and it simply wasn't fair to say it aloud.

_Choose Edward. He's loved you with every cell in his body, every day of his life. He's flawed and hopeless and only half of himself without you. _

"Michael IS nice." She let out a sigh, squaring her shoulders a little. "Well, he's been awful today, but so have I. I've treated him badly for a long time, but… I'm going to try to do the right thing by him." She glanced to Edward, who was watching her with an unreadable expression as the minister filled him in on the church's fundraising efforts.

"Don't rush into anything," Carlisle warned as she turned back to catch Michael's eye. "Don't think about anyone but yourself. This is your decision. However it impacts on others, they will deal with it."

Carlisle motioned for her to go, and watched her stride down the aisle towards Michael.

Her heels made firm clicking sounds, and she'd never looked so lovely, or so resigned, thought Carlisle.

Edward trailed off mid sentence as he watched her go, and the minister looked at him askance. Emmett stepped forward, his hand on Edward's arm, seamlessly filling the uncomfortable silence and continuing the conversation. Carlisle snapped back into the moment and joined them, thanking the minister for the service.

"Edward," Rose said, her runny nose giving her voice a petulant twang. Edward turned and walked to her, his face blank, giving away nothing. He stood near the pew, rocking back and forth on his heels, his eyes narrowed as he studied the rectangle of light at the end of the aisle where Bella and Michael had disappeared.

"Go after her," Rose urged, taking a tissue from her handbag and giving her nose a vigorous blow. "Please, don't let her make the wrong decision."

Edward shook his head. "I shouldn't." Even as he spoke, he was gripping the end of the church pew.

"Don't give up," Rose pleaded softly.

Edward could not help smiling at the solemn belief and love in her eyes as she moved over, stood on tiptoe to straighten his tie.

"I'll never give up on her," he said quietly, catching Rose's fingers to stop her fussing further. "But I have to… control myself a little. I've been playing unfair for too many years. This is her decision. Whatever she decides to do, whoever she picks, we all have to support her in it."

He squeezed Rose's hand as she opened her mouth to argue. "I mean it, Rose. We just have to trust Bella to make the best choice for her."

Tears welled in Rose's eyes as she took in Edward's heavy resignation. "You don't think she's going to choose you, do you?"

He blinked, and in that moment, Rose saw the depth of his pain.

"She shouldn't," he said softly. "I told her everything last night… she knows now. She knows that I can't offer her the things she needs. Things like a house… stability…" He trailed off, gestured vaguely, looking impossibly tired as he wrenched his tie looser.

"Privacy…" he muttered to himself.

He touched two fingers to Rose's rounded belly, before realizing what he had done and recoiling awkwardly. He changed the subject abruptly, flipping from the intensely intimate to the banal so quickly that Rose was momentarily lost.

"Did Emmett pick up that dry cleaning for me?"

Rose grabbed his hand and pressed it firmly against the side of her stomach, smirking at his look of shock when the baby moved obligingly. "Yes, it's done. But I want to know-"

Emmett joined them. "What are you two plotting over here?" His gruff voice echoed off the walls.

Rose swung her hair from out of her eyes. "Bella's gone outside with Mike, hopefully giving him his marching orders. I hope he's _crying_." She smirked at the thought and she stamped her foot to try to combat her worry that everything was going horribly wrong. She winced as her baby echoed the motion and stamped a foot too.

Emmett smiled at her petulance, caught himself, and frowned. "Hate to say it, but Mike's done nothing wrong." He gathered Rose to him, rubbing the small of her back with his palm. "Just because you don't like him doesn't mean he's bad for Bella." He shot his brother a look of apology, and Edward shrugged miserably, his clothes drooping as though he were soaking wet.

"Do you _like_ him?" Rose challenged Emmett in a hushed tone. "Do you want him as part of this family? Do you think he brings out the best in her?"

Emmett opened his mouth, and ever the diplomat, cast his eyes to the ceiling as he tried to work out how to answer. He glanced at Edward, who looked like he was in physical pain, his jaw tight. He wanted to shush Rose, to tell her that she was only making the situation worse, but she interrupted before he could say anything.

"He'll make sure she's even less involved with our family. I know his type. He'll gradually cut her off from us. It will start with just a missed birthday or reunion, and then it will be a year gone by, and the baby will be starting school, and we'll just never see her again. We'll get a Christmas card, but she'll just… fade away from us," she trailed off, fighting tears, crossing to the window to try to see out.

She realised that the minister was watching and belatedly pretended to be admiring the early 1970's architecture, which no one had ever had cause to admire before.

They should spend a little less time praying, and a little more time cleaning windows, she thought in frustration, only able to see the grimy outline of Bella and Michael on the lawn beside the chapel. She did not see how Edward had turned his head away, and how Emmett was rubbing his shoulder.

"It's true," Edward said to Emmett under his breath. "He's told her that she's to never see me again. Fucking prick. She did say that she wouldn't take orders from him, but he'll wear her down."

"Just because I don't actually like him doesn't mean that he's a bad guy," Emmett finally conceded to Rose as she rejoined them. "Are you happy? There. I don't like him. He's not a bad person, he's just not the right person for her."

Rose raised her eyebrows in triumph.

Edward studied his cufflink impassively, his eyes narrowed in an expression that could have been misinterpreted as anger by someone who did not know him.

"It's true, Rose. He's done nothing wrong. Trust her like _I_ trust her. I'm going to be hurt I think," he said, holding up his hand to silence Rose, "but I want you to support her, please, for me. Be her friend if she pushes me away."

"You're trusting her to hurt you?" Rose shook her head.

"I'm learning that… loving someone…means just putting yourself in their hands. Blind faith that they will do what is right. That's what ma used to say. And if you know that's what they want, it's easier to bear." His tone grew rough. "Michael isn't such a bad choice, if you look at it. He's done what I should have done for her, all these years. I was too selfish. I didn't think about the future. I didn't go and find her, and I sure as hell didn't ask her to-"

"_You_ should be marrying her," Rose interrupted, their sentences overlapping, their words tangling.

The silence settling like snow around them as her words rang in the cavernous space.

Edward looked down, around himself and realised he was standing exactly where a groom would stand. The floorboards were a paler, wheaten colour here, worn away by the nervous shuffling of shoes.

"Yes, well." There was nothing else he could say. He stared at the ground. He'd done nothing to deserve her, nothing to win her. His passion for her was more substantial than his own skeleton; it was the frame that his entire being clung onto, like vines. This love was like a mythological beast, fanged and clawed, desperate to sleep at the foot of its mistress' bed.

It was a disturbing image, and he felt oddly protective of Bella. Why should she live with someone who was so fundamentally unhinged?

Edward had never had anyone love him the way he loved her. He would never allow it, he promised himself as he straightened, the sight of his mother's coffin giving weight to his vow. If she gave up on him, he would never let anyone else in.

"I'll trust her," Rose promised rashly, alarmed at the bleakness in his eye and the taut silence. "She'll choose you. I know it." She hugged him as tightly as she could, and finally his arm rose to wrap around her shoulders. "She'd be crazy to give you up."

"It's alright, Rose," Edward said quietly, seeming to snap himself to attention. "I need to think about dad, not obsess about myself for once."

Emmett patted Edward's shoulder. "We'll all look after you," he said, clearing his throat twice. "You'll get through this."

Edward looked at his brother, and suddenly flashed his white teeth in an instant of humour.

"You asked me a question a few nights ago when you first arrived. About me and Bella's connection…. About that thing I can do…."

Rose's head swiveled slowly as the two men stared at each other for what seemed an age.

Surely even her baby was pressing its ear to her belly button.

The sun slowly, slowly slid out from behind the cloud cover, and the branches shook the light into confetti. Edward rubbed the back of his neck as he confessed.

"It's always, always, only been her."

Emmett breathed out and nodded. "I think on some level I've always known it."

Rose's face was pink with self control, and she made herself a promise of her own. She would _never _ask Emmett what that had meant.

(Unless, she reasoned with herself, the conversation was heading in that general direction. Then she'd weave it in. But she wouldn't directly ask him.)

"Thank you for telling me," Emmett hugged his brother. "I knew you'd tell me in your own time."

Edward's face twisted. "I've done too much in my own time. I need to learn how to control myself."

With as much dignity as he could muster, and feeling exposed and yet somehow oddly lighter, like a slate wiped clean, Edward moved to stand beside Carlisle, to join him in the unbearable business of waiting.

Bella shivered but resisted the urge to wrap her arms around herself. She needed to feel this; feel everything. Reality seemed heightened, and as she stood under the sour sky and spoiled clouds, the relief of finally speaking these words to Michael was astonishing.

Whilst she stood steady, her bearing oddly regal, she focused on the task at hand, rather than the terrifying implications.

Truth be told, she felt like she had just leapt out of a plane and was flailing blindly in the direction of the ripcord.

She could do nothing but stand by and wait patiently as Michael worked through this new knowledge, although his asthma attack was taking priority.

"You're okay…. You're okay," she said, regretting that her voice was a little sharp as she put a hand on his elbow. "Do you want me to get you some water?" She wasn't sure if this was the right thing to offer him. He'd never had an asthma attack in the time they'd been dating, and it was frightening to witness his second in as many days. His complexion was marshmallow white and petal pink. The last thing she needed was him passing out. Thank God Carlisle was a doctor.

"Don't bother," Michael replied vaguely. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. He had a bee sitting on the edge of his lapel, but she didn't have the heart to tell him.

"I'm sorry. I am so sorry for everything that's happened," Bella said again, beginning to feel unsure if he had even heard her. He looked like he was in shock. She looked around for somewhere for him to sit, but there was nothing but low hedgerows.

"Yes, it's alright…" Michael trailed off faintly, and then seemed to mentally shake himself. "I've changed my flight; I'm leaving tonight. If you want, leave your car here, fly back with me." His face puckered into a smile, and she began to feel alarmed. He had the soft blurred eyes of someone in the grips of a mental break.

She stepped forward and touched his sleeve. "You heard what I said, didn't you?" She caught his eye, and repeated the words again, making herself firm. "I'm staying here."

He shook his head, the sickening little smile forming on his mouth again. "Come on, Bella." He shook his head, as though she were a child making a distasteful joke.

Her gaze did not waver, and she decided to rephrase.

"I'm staying here. I need to stay with Carlisle, and I'm so sorry, but I'm… I'm leaving you, Michael."

Michael recoiled. "What?"

"I'm sorry," she said, and unclipped her purse and scrabbled around for the ring. She pressed it into the palm of his hand, hoping that the action would make him realise she was serious.

He gaped at it incredulously like he had never seen it before, let alone studied it with a jeweler's loupe as he assessed its facets and flaws.

The blank shine of his eyes mirrored the diamond.

Watching him, Bella's chest began to hurt. He turned the ring over in his fingers again, and ever the lawyer, he began to weakly cross examine her.

"Why is this happening?" Michael managed. "Things were fine barely a week ago, and now you're a different person. Where did you go?"

She was not sure how to adequately answer that. "I came home," she said simply. "I should have come back here a long time ago."

"Is it Edward?" His voice was a pained whisper.

She could not lie. "Yes. Of course it's Edward."

She hated herself for it, but she felt compelled to clarify, "It's always been Edward. Only Edward." Michael deserved some explanation for the crumbs of love he had subsisted upon for so long.

Michael stared at the ring in his palm with a disembodied kind of shock. "I can't believe this."

The wind picked up and began fluttering the black dress she'd had to borrow from Esme's wardrobe.

"Michael, things haven't been right with us for a long time. I know I've been hard to live with, but I've realised some things since returning here." She paused, trying to work out how to explain herself without hurting him more.

"I've… never left this place, Michael. No matter where I've been, I've always been _here_, in every way that counts."

Michael shook his head. "I can promise you, you've been elsewhere. With me. We have a life outside of this place. You're happy." He picked a long loose strand of her hair from the shoulder of her dress. "This place is like a fox trap. If we can just get you out of here, you'll get your clarity back. Come home, Bella. We can work through these issues. I'll go to sessions with you and Angela. I can forgive you for what you did."

She saw he genuinely meant this, and wondered how much this generous offer would cost him. Would it eat away at him? Would she sense him remembering it as they sat opposite each other, eating in their silent dining room? There might be a moment where he would not meet her eyes, and she would know.

At her silence, he began softly firing ammunition, trying to weaken her.

"Your job. Are you going to just quit?"

She flinched. It didn't pay well, but she needed that job.

"And the apartment! Bella, the apartment. What am I going to do? You can_not_ do that to me. I've made commitments, and I needn't remind you that you did too."

"I know," she said, her temper piqued. "Although you made the decision about the apartment, not me."

Michael tried, his voice rising in desperation as he tried to provoke a reaction from her.

"So what are you thinking of doing with your life, exactly? Work the check-out here in Forks? That's what you'll have to do. There'll be no real jobs."

Bella narrowed her eyes slightly as she remembered something. "You've always been embarrassed by my job. I heard it, when you were talking to Edward earlier."

Michael paused. "What did you hear?" He asked carefully.

"I heard you say I'm not a journalist. You sounded so… disgusted. Like you were embarrassed of me."

Michael glared, his eyes narrowed. "Don't make me out to be the bad guy in this scenario. I'm going to have to go home now, and explain to everyone I know that you've completely lost your mind." He shuddered visibly. "Have you got any idea how humiliated I'm going to be, going home alone?"

He began his closing argument, stepping closer to his jury of one, laying his damp palms on her wrists, and tried to make her take back the ring. He let it go, and she awkwardly caught it as it flipped.

"I'm being damn nice about this, Bella. You've been unfaithful, but I can move past it. I promise that if you come home with me, I will never mention it again." It was all he could say; the only ace he had. "I _love _you. I have built my life around you."

She felt herself waver for an instant, but her hand was already rising and pressing the ring back into Michael's palm as though she had no control over her own body.

"You say you can forgive me, but I doubt you can. And I really can't forgive you for the way you spoke about Esme."

Michael winced, but she continued, "Your disrespect was staggering. I know I've treated you terribly, but that was uncalled for."

She was trembling, her body zinging with energy and adrenalin and something else, something sweeter. "You have no idea what this family means to me. And if you think you can tell me to not see them, you don't know me at all. You've made me choose, and I choose them."

She had no idea if she and Edward would burn too bright, burn out too fast. But as she watched Michael polish the diamond on his sleeve, she realised that it was fear of humiliation that was making him cling so tightly.

It wasn't love, true love. She had no doubt that Michael loved her in his quiet, sensible way.

Was Edward's love – here, her stomach trilled nervously - the kind she could live with? Or without? What sort of love was his?

Suddenly, although there were none around, she breathed in a lungful of roses, and she remembered the dream she had last night. She had been trying to remember all morning.

What had been that flirty mental itch that was déjà vu, all the dizzying and hauntingly beautiful images, were now twisted into some kind of focus.

The images that had overlapped and teased at the edges of her consciousness were not a dream. They had been Edward's memories.

Edward's sleepless nights, his almost unimaginable loneliness. Roses and topaz and the aching, the aching. The way he had used oceans to stop himself from capturing her, and the deliberate punishment he had so ruthlessly inflicted on himself as he lived in worlds that echoed his insides. Suffering and running and wasted lives.

It had been her name he prayed to instead of God.

The sun blazed bright, warming the grass where they stood, and illuminated everything.

"I don't know how I'm going to explain this," Michael said again, and Bella supposed he was picturing announcing news to all of his stuffy colleagues.

She took a deep breath, and forced herself to be firm. "You will recover from this. You will find someone new- someone right for you."

He barked out a humourless laugh. "Recover from this? Financial ruin, public embarrassment, a career down the toilet?"

He closed his eyes and felt her press the ring into his palm again.

"A broken heart. I don't think I will recover." He said as he fought against tears. "And you're throwing me away for what?" He looked down at her beautiful face, and was gratified to see her tears welling. "For your high school crush. God, Bella, that's so clichéd. I have done nothing but love you."

"And I love you," Bella said truthfully.

The scrape of footsteps was shockingly close.

Edward walked past, his hand on Carlisle's shoulder, guiding him to the car.

Edward was turning his face away.

Even from Edward's profile, she could see his pain. The white flag of defeat had settled down onto his shoulders, and as he turned away she saw the stubborn set of his jaw and her stomach dropped.

Michael stiffened as he saw the way her eyes followed Edward, her expression tortured.

He'd always known in the courtroom when he'd lost, even before the verdict was handed in. And he knew now. He'd lost. He'd lost her.

"But not as much as you love him." He carefully took out his wallet and zippered the ring into the coin pocket, alongside all the dimes and nickels, little things so close to worthless it seemed laughable to carry them around.

Bella watched Edward's car pull away before dragging her eyes back to Michael.

"I'm sorry. So sorry. But I've never loved anyone as much as I love him. And I'm sorry it's taken me so long to realize it. I've wasted your heart, and your time."

Edward's car reversed smartly and accelerated away.

Bella mentally replayed the last minute.

Edward had heard her tell Michael that she loved him; maybe he would think she had chosen.

She wanted to call to him to stop, that he'd misunderstood, she was choosing him, but Michael was teetering on the edge of irate.

"You've both been telling me how much you love each other," Michael spat. "Don't you give a damn about my feelings?"

Bella bit her tongue to stop herself begging him to explain.

Michael turned away, his fingers reaching for the keys to his rental car, completely hollow.

"I've got nothing left now," he said blankly as he walked to his car, leaving her behind. He turned around in the car park, barely registering Rose and Emmett on the stairs.

He turned again slowly, and he suddenly spontaneously combusted into anger, making everyone flinch. Animals higher on the hills behind the chapel lifted their heads, ceasing to chew, ears tilting warily as Michael's voice settled into an echoing rhythm of angry barks.

"I've lost you. I love you, and I've lost. I've been humiliated. You think you're going to be happy? He's a fucking flake. One day he's going to make you feel like I feel right now." Fury, an unfamiliar flamethrower blasting through his gullet, was a far better feeling than sorrow.

He unlocked his car door and began to swing himself in. "You'll feel like I feel, one day. Like an idiot for even trying to be with someone so completely, fundamentally messed up." Tears were streaking down his cheeks as he jammed the key into the ignition, revved the engine.

"Michael- don't-" Bella protested helplessly. She didn't want them to part on such bad terms.

"You both deserve each other." He spun his car around furiously and screeched away, scaring the little sparrows and doves that had been sorting through the fallen leaves.

Emmett and Rose were slack jawed with shock from their vantage point on the top of the stairs.

When Michael's engine subsided into the distance, and the gravel finally skittered to a stop, Bella raised a hand.

"Don't say anything," Bella warned, closing her eyes, choking back the nausea, but in the end failing. She'd been naïve enough to think she could end her relationship with Michael neatly; she'd tried to be civil and reasonable but she'd forgotten that it was his ego as well as his heart that she had shredded.

She hadn't just politely declined her normal life; she had ripped it up and thrown away the pieces.

As she retched weakly into the spindly green hedging beside the chapel, Emmett and Rose held back her hair and rubbed her arms comfortingly.

"It's going to be fine," Rose said to Bella firmly, no hint of amusement or pleasure in her eyes now. She'd said she wanted Michael humiliated, and she'd gotten her wish, but it had left a nasty taste in her mouth. The feel of Bella's fine shoulders trembling under her hand made her feel ashamed. Nothing good could come of this kind of pain.

"Come home," Emmett said, hooking his arm through Bella's.

"I can't," she whispered weakly, digging her heels in as they guided her to Emmett's car. "I'm not sure where…"

"It's with us," Emmett said gently.

"The hard part is over," Rose added, sliding in beside Bella on the backseat.

Bella shook her head but allowed Rose to pull her close, and as she pressed her damp face into Rose's shoulder, all Bella could see was Edward's pained face overlaid on everything she looked at. It was the fleeting look that she knew so well; his need to run from her, or to deliberately ruin things that were so new and beautiful.

"I'm not so sure," Bella whispered into Rose's neck. She knew that Rose was disappointed with her, and she could not forget the disgust in her eye the previous night. But for now, she closed her eyes, and gradually her breathing slowed, and she repeated Edward's name, over and over in her mind, until she felt calm.

As they drove home towards the last night they would all be together, Emmett looked at the girls on the back seat, their eyes closed and their hair slowly sifting together.

He smiled as he turned the car into the secret opening in the trees that was now marked with a red balloon, like a children's birthday party. He couldn't help it, and he knew it probably seemed like terrible timing on the day of his mother's funeral, but joy was lifting him up.

He tapped his fingers lightly on the steering wheel in time to his tuneless humming. He felt like the clarity he'd been searching for, for so very long, had been dropped into his hand like a coin. He watched Bella frown to herself in her sleep, and he finally understood the difficulty of her decision. Tangled selfishness and selflessness that was woven through their love. It wasn't right, and it was hopelessly co-dependent, but it was what it was.

As he parked his car and saw Edward vanish from the porch, he nodded sagely to himself, trying to smother his grin. Run, rabbit, run, he wanted to tease him gently. His poor brother was as exposed as he'd ever been, and probably terrified of what was to come. He had risked his heart and did not yet know if he had won it back, or lost it for good. Truth be told, Emmett wasn't totally sure either, but he was getting more confident about where to lay odds.

And as he gave the girls a minute or two more time to rest, Emmett leaned on his car and looked out at the fields and trees and closed his eyes too, the constant bloom of patience in his chest. The wind eased and the intense delicious pleasure of the moment consumed him, he felt almost like his mother was leaning against the car beside him, savouring the moment and smiling a little too at how vicious and vulnerable people in love can be in the moments before they reveal their hearts.

Patience, Emmett told himself as he unlocked the back door and kissed Rose on her cheek. Nothing needed now but a little patience.

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**A/N: And now I must ask for a little more of your patience. The last chapter is completed and I will upload it as soon as it's beta'd and I find an internet connection. Who knows where I will be next? Eating chocolate in Switzerland, or sunning myself in Italy?  
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	22. Chapter 20: The Inheritance

**A/N: **

**Greetings from Interlaken. I'm glad to have found an internet connection to upload the last chapter, and to end this story. Again, if the formatting is iffy, please overlook it- I simply have no time to pretty it up.**

**It's been an amazing experience. Thank you for reading this, and for allowing me to explore what kind of writer I am capable of being. It has been one of the most challenging things I've ever attempted, and I've learnt a lot. **

**Thanks of course go to bookbag. She's the other half of my entity. She's amazing. **

**Thank you to carrie3101, my number one fan, who has believed in me and encouraged me even though we have never met. What a gift. **

**Thank you to gutterfairy, who was guest beta on this chapter. **

**And special thanks to my boyfriend White Arrow, for his patience and support- with the end of this story, he gets me back, and he is very happy about that.**

**It is with joy in my heart and maybe a little tear that I give you the final chapter of The Blessing and the Curse, and write those two magical words at the very bottom of your screen.  
**

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**Chapter Twenty One: The Inheritance**

Bella stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom, ruefully studying her appearance. She wore the same black dress she'd borrowed from Esme's wardrobe to wear to the funeral that afternoon, but as the sun set down behind the hills, turning everything a thousand shades of white gold, she wished she had brought something different to wear. Her selection was painfully limited; her only other dress had been knotted and rumpled after her night with Edward. She had tried to untwist it but her hands had shaken too much and she'd given up.

If she wasn't feeling so exceptionally cowardly, she might have gone back upstairs to Esme's closet to borrow the green cocktail dress she'd passed over this morning. But she was daunted by the momentous feeling that fizzed in her blood, and she lingered in front of the mirror or by the window, hoping to settle herself.

She could feel Edward's presence in the house like a ghost. Every creak or closing door, she felt it was him. He was the light and shadows sliding over her floor, the beautiful monster under her bed that terrified and delighted her in turn.

The sound of a man's voice downstairs, perhaps greeting a guest, was unmistakably his, the cadence of his voice as familiar as the sound of her own heart.

She wasn't sure why this was so frightening, but she remembered how he had smiled at her as he'd braced himself over her, after they had made love, the glow of love in his eyes and the tiny frown that she had not recognized, and she thought that perhaps this feeling was excitement, the twin brother of terror.

Bella could see from her vantage point the steady procession of cars winding down the road towards them, the white dots of headlights necessary now that darkness was softly descending. They were parking in crooked rows along the edges of the drive. Women were wobbling in their kitten heels along the gravel, gathering in groups of twos and threes to exchange long hugs, rubbing each other's shoulders, pulling back and ducking to check each other's expression. They may have been dressed for it, but their slow steps and the way they held each other's arms could tell any onlooker that this was not a party. Bella felt tears prick in her own eyes as she watched one woman take out a mirror to try to repair her mascara.

The men strayed awkwardly behind as the women comforted each other. They looked like they were spending an afternoon at the racetrack, dressed in their light grey suits and carrying bouquets and bottles of wine. Bella leaned her cheekbone against the old wood window frame, letting her breath fog a little.

There were beautiful colours, feathers, silk. All had tissues and handkerchiefs in their pockets and handbags, but there was hardly any black, just colour.

Bella, meanwhile, looked like a black tulip; wilting, petals loosened. She plucked at the skirt ineffectually, wishing she looked more beautiful for when she sought out Edward, but remembering that she was somehow always beautiful to him.

She jumped when she heard the knock on her bedroom door.

"Come in," she called, her stomach trilling nervously. The door swung open, and she wasn't sure if it was relief or trepidation to see Rose. The one drop of bad blood between them made Bella turn to the dressing table to nervously straighten the bottles and to begin making ordered piles of hairpins and earrings.

She'd cried on Rose's shoulder in the car, but Bella could not quite forget the disdain in Rose's eyes the previous night.

"Rose, hi." Self consciously, she tugged at her skirt again, unsure of herself.

"Are you ok? Why are you hiding in here?" Rose asked after a moment. She was a solemn, blonde little Indian princess in the doorway, a garment bag folded over her arm.

She was wearing a beautiful turquoise shirt in the same fabric as an Indian sari, with one arm adorned with thin gold bangles. She wore navy pants and no shoes, and she shifted from foot to foot. She held small embroidered slippers in her hand.

"I'm fine now. I know you're angry with me," Bella blurted and sat on the end of the bed, but broke off as Rose waved her words away.

Rose sighed, hanging the garment bag on the wardrobe. "I'm not angry, hon. I promise."

She sat down beside Bella, her guttural groan echoed by the bed's squeak.

"Funeral was dreadful, wasn't it?" she said matter-of-factly, her dark blue eyes assessing Bella's face shrewdly.

Bella nodded. "I felt terrible that I wasn't upset during it," she confessed tentatively.

"I just couldn't feel any connection to Esme. I just felt numb."

Rose exhaled. "I know, me too." She leaned back on one elbow on the bed. "But we'll make up for it tonight. It's going to be one hell of a party judging from the amount of champagne on ice down in the cellar. They're all going to be legless. Emmett has made up spare rooms in case people need to stay overnight." She wrinkled her nose in amusement and tapped her foot idly. "Nothing like watching your husband make six beds. It's strangely erotic."

Bella snorted with laughter, some of the unease leaving her.

The smell of food and the distant hum of talking below made them both smile and as they turned to each other the tentative strands of friendship unfurled like spider's webs.

"I'm sorry you're disappointed with me," Bella said. "About how I've handled this whole situation with Edward."

Rose sighed, rubbing her face. "It's absolutely none of my business. I've been a nosy bitch."

Bella laughed. "Yes, you have. But that's why I love you."

Rose pinched her arm gently. "I'm sorry that I've been like this. Emmett and I talked, and I kinda see how hard the decision was to make." She jingled her bracelets idly. "Choosing between your heart, and your head…"

She trailed off, as the unmistakable footsteps of Edward passed by the door and continued to his bedroom. They heard his door close.

It was at least ten seconds until Bella let out her breath again, and Rose grinned at her, until she remembered what Edward had warned her, and the smile faded.

"Bella…Whatever you decide to do- be with Edward, go back to Michael, or choose neither of them- it's your decision. Don't think of what anyone else thinks. Even me." Rose's voice was a little stiff. She was embarrassed by her childishness, memories of Edward's pained expression and the tears streaking down Michael's cheeks making her wince inwardly.

But she could not hold back the words, as hard as she tried.

"But you've chosen Edward, right?"

Bella bit her lip, but the smile caught the edge of her mouth. She stood, and crossed to the mirror again, and studied herself as she replied.

"I overheard Edward and Michael talking about me, earlier, outside." She pressed her hand to her overheated temple.

"What did you hear?" Rose asked, her eyes glinting. Her mouth was tugging upwards at the corners, and the scent of gossip was making her salivate.

"I…" Bella paused, unsure of how much she could share. "I heard enough to realize how Michael feels about me. How both of them feel about me, actually."

"And?" Rose's toes were visibly curled.

"Michael doesn't believe in me."

She said the words simply, although they did hurt. "He doesn't think I can fulfill my potential. He was always embarrassed that I wasn't a lawyer or something. He thought my career was a joke." She took the lid off a perfume bottle. "Possibly he was right. I've been just… sleepwalking. Sitting in a court room; listening to evidence of violence, seeing the worst of humanity. I can't do it any more," she said again, more to herself. "And it was Edward who defended me, said I could do anything I chose to."

She looked at Rose in the reflection of the glass.

"I've been so terrified of having no choice. For the longest time, I didn't want to be in love with Edward. But I was so busy running away from him I didn't notice that I was being trapped by someone else; into a life I didn't want. I was just numb… I didn't notice what was happening, until it all felt too late."

Rose's foot tapped quicker in the air, and she put on her slippers to hide her agitation.

"I dreamt of Edward every night, and spent every waking hour erasing his existence." Bella turned to face Rose. "But I can't deny it any more. I'm in love with him."

Rose made an inhuman noise, and her slipper fell off. "And he's yours. He's so completely at your feet, it just makes me want to cry. You should see him down there, all dressed up like a grown up man, taking care of his daddy. Our Edward is growing up," she mused, suddenly taking on the air of a contemplative matriarch. "He's a little shit, but I think that boy is growing up."

Bella's nose wrinkled in amusement and sat next to Rose. "He's practically not a teenager any more. I can't believe he didn't bury Michael, especially after his outburst this morning. Michael said he couldn't give a fuck about Esme- he said it out of anger, but I would never be able to forgive him that. Even if he could forgive me for being unfaithful, I'd never forget he said that," she said, her voice laced with pain. Rose pushed her off the bed, not wanting her to lose her glow.

"Come on, you can get dressed while talking. People are arriving- the boys need us downstairs."

"I _am_ dressed," Bella said, pulling out the edges of the skirt before dropping it unhappily. "I've got nothing to change into, unless I raid Esme's wardrobe again, which might be poor taste given the circumstances."

Rose hauled herself up moved to the wardrobe door and briskly unzipped the garment bag, unpinning the dry cleaning label.

"This would be much nicer," she commented as she pulled the dress out, pausing when she saw Bella's face. "What?"

Bella looked as if she had seen a ghost.

It was the red dress.

The beautiful dress she'd worn on the night she had run away, down a different path and into a blank life of ice and silence. The red was the colour that had saturated every dream of Edward. Each dream had veered abruptly into nightmare when she sensed she was waking up and losing him again.

She crossed to it, and Rose fell instinctively silent. Bella touched the old silk carefully, her fingers remembering the feel of the threads against her fingerprints. The air layered with déjà vu and memory and the unmistakable resounding sensation of fate. She gathered the skirt up to inspect one side where she knew she had fallen and torn it. It had been professionally repaired with tiny stitches, barely visible in the skirt's lush creases.

It was her own personal Cinderella dress. She wore it that night, eons ago, when she had made the decision to just accept fate and give in to her love. He had pushed her away, and ruined that night, but as she ran her fingertips over the tiny repair stitches she realised that it was an old damage. Long mended. Always there as a reminder, a caution, but it had not ruined it.

It glowed with old love.

"Was it Esme's?" Rose asked kindly. "It's gorgeous."

Bella began tearing off her black dress, too distracted to be self conscious in her underwear, not caring that her bedroom door was open.

"It was hers. And it was once mine, a long time ago. I wore this the night before I ran away," she said, sliding out of her mourning dress like she was in a trance.

She gathered herself, and cast Rose a look. "But Esme didn't do this. Edward did this." The absolute conviction in her voice made Rose smile.

Bella lifted her arms, and the old silk slid down the sides of her arms. It was hugging her like a glove, and in that moment she was transported back. She was young; she was in love, hopelessly in love. Rose zipped it up for her, and went to sort through Bella's shoes to see what would work best.

Bella smoothed down the sides and walked to study herself in the wardrobe mirror. It still fit perfectly. She noticed the faint pink heart on her shoulder, where Edward's mouth had marked her.

Edward, the most unsentimental person she knew, who eschewed possessions, had kept this dress. He had it repaired, and it had hung in his closet like a flame. He had never forgotten her and never given up hope for a second chance. It hung in the dark, safe in this house just as she left it, damaged and tragic and desperately lovely, waiting for the day it would be worn again.

"Edward loves me," Bella breathed, touching her fingertips to the antique silver brushes on her dresser. She lifted her eyes to the reflection, meaning to look at Rose, but she could only look at her own face, the way her own eyes flashed, when she repeated, "Edward loves me. It's only ever been me."

Rose stood, and hugged her. Bella closed her eyes and breathed in the Chanel and shampoo. They stood together in the last slices of daylight, and Rose pressed a couple of kisses to Bella's hair as she released her.

"Esme would have been thrilled," Rose said, her eyes brimming with tears. "You were her daughter in so many ways, but she'd always known that you and Edward were perfect for each other. She always used to smile when she spoke of you two. 'He's never loved anyone but Bella', that's she used to say."

Bella took a readying breath. "I have to be prepared for the fact that he might pull away from me. We've got a lot of bad history. I've never told you what it was like growing up with him. Every time he got close enough for a kiss, he'd laugh and abandon me somewhere, or-"

Rose frowned. "You're never living NOW. You're in the past with Edward. You're trapped in the future you could have had with Michael. Just… live now."

She patted her pregnant stomach. "We live in each day we're given. What do you want now?"

"I want to be with him. Always."

"Then what are you doing up here?" Rose laughed. "Be brave. Your life with him won't be easy, I can guarantee you that. But it will be a life. You've woken up."

Bella wavered as she padded to the door. "He might run away from me. We're good at doing that to each other."

"You're both tired by now. Just walk." Rose's voice was full of the confident authority of someone who was in love with the right person. She felt languorous as she stretched her arms over her head, feeling like tonight the puzzle pieces were falling into place.

Edward's door opened abruptly at the end of the hall, and Bella turned as he passed her doorway.

"Edward," she said softly. When he saw her he blanched, before quickly recovering.

He was wearing his dark grey suit, but had shed his tie, and his face was devoid of expression as he took in her small feet, the beautiful line of her bare throat, her bare hands. He lingered on the pink mark he had left on her skin, and when he caught her eye for a fraction of a second, she thought he looked like he wanted to cry.

"You kept my dress," she breathed, her smile fading.

"I told you I had all sorts of things hidden in my closet," he managed, and turned away, pretending to check if he'd closed his door.

"Thank you," Bella said. "Come here."

She was not surprised when he backed slowly down the hallway, his eyes smouldering with something that scared her.

"Edward- wait," Bella said. "I need to talk to you."

"See you downstairs," he said, and disappeared.

"He's scared of what my decision is," Bella explained finally to Rose, who came to stand beside her in the doorway. "He doesn't know who I've chosen."

"You better go and tell him then," Rose said, giving her a push to propel her down the hallway. "Put him out of his misery. He's awful when he's unhappy."

Bella laughed as they paused at the top of the stairs. "I don't know what I'm doing." She dragged her fingers through her hair to tidy it.

Rose caught her hands. "You'll know what to do."

Walk, Bella repeated to herself as she made her way down the stairs, her feet still bare.

Walk to him. Walking away from him is not an option any more. She smiled to herself, the giddiness almost unbearable.

She stopped on the landing, surprised to see so many people in the house below.

There was still a sense of sadness in the air, but it was muted by the gorgeous old big band music that Esme loved. The huge vases of roses and trailing ivy evoked memories of that New Years Eve night so many years before, and the little candles lit her way as she slipped down the stairs and through the crowd of half-familiar faces.

Esme is here tonight, I can feel her, Bella realised as someone began laughing at the punchline of a joke. She smiled politely at Esme's friends and colleagues, and caught sight of the photographs propped on mantles and old chairs; people studying them like artworks.

One woman, dressed in olive, stood alone before the picture of Esme asleep on the patio, her fingers pressed to her lips, eyes starry with tears. Everyone was finding their own way to say goodbye to her tonight, and as the clock slipped forward a little, the flowers seemed to imbue the air, perfuming skin and hair.

Esme is here with me tonight, Bella thought, to make sure that I claim him.

She waved to Emmett, who was pouring champagne with his grave, steady competence. He caught her eye, and smiled and lifted a glass to toast her.

Thank God, he thought as he watched her duck through a doorway, clearly on a quest in bare feet.

_She's chosen him_.

She walked slowly, padding softly as though hunting prey, ducking under an elbow and stepping over the hems of trailing dresses. There was laughter here tonight, she realised, but a tear escaped as she searched for him in the kitchen, on the patio.

She trod carefully through this crush of people, feeling kind hands upon her elbow, words of condolence and the joy that everybody felt to have had Esme for as long as they did.

With every turn she took through the interconnected rooms, she felt he had just slipped away. "He was here a minute ago," advised one man, gesturing with his champagne glass. "He's just through there."

She saw Edward's shoulder, his profile as he disappeared through into the dining room. His beauty was enough to steal her breath, as always, but it was the strange vulnerability in the way that he rubbed the back of his neck that pierced her more. She wound onwards, through the house that held all of her memories, unknowing that he was slipping away from the petal of red that he had carried in the corner of his eye, the centre of his heart, for so long that he couldn't tell if he was in heaven or purgatory.

Bella struggled through a crowd of elderly great aunts and uncles, smiling as they greeted her like family. She spoke with them for a few minutes, trying to mask her impatience to reach him. She was released after several powdery kisses, and turned to backtrack, unaware that she was raising a hand as if to catch him by the sleeve of his jacket.

A gust of cold air told her that the front door was closing, and she turned and began to run, chasing him instinctively, skidding to a stop when she realised it wasn't Edward leaving, but her father arriving.

Charlie looked like a hedge that that been trimmed too many times. He had a kind of unreal, strained quality, like there was not a leaf, or hair, out of place.

He's looking so _old_, Bella realised with a start. So much older than the last time she saw him, last year. Maybe it was the year before, she thought guiltily.

He was dressed in black, and looked completely out of place. He clearly didn't get that memo, she thought sadly. He was always doing what was technically correct, but missing out on the bigger picture.

"Bella," Charlie said stiffly, as though calling her by her name was unbearable intimacy, even for his own progeny.

She hated herself for it, but she felt herself deflate, the strange playful joy of hunting Edward draining away. Her tears, and her smile, dried on her cheeks.

"Hi Dad," she said. "How are you?" She stepped out of the way as Rose passed with a platter of smoked salmon canapés. Rose nodded politely to Charlie but was clearly a little foggy on who he was.

"I'm fine. I'm… sorry for Esme passing," Charlie replied, his deep voice sombre. "Is the family holding up alright?"

"We're fine," she said, holding out her hand for his coat. "Coping, anyway. Carlisle is hanging in there."

She hung his coat under the stairs, choosing to ignore his pointed look at her bare feet.

Bella wondered if this evening brought back painful memories of Renee's death. Maybe there was a trace of pity in her eye, and he seemed to read her thought.

"Your mother's wake was nothing like this," he commented, as though relieved to have said the words. He gestured to the elegant cocktail wear and gingerly took a canapé from Rose as she made another circuit, her eyes ever bright with curiosity.

"It's perfect," Bella said, aware of the note of defensiveness in her voice.

She took in the crowd with satisfaction, in truth half expecting Esme to pop around the corner at any moment, being slowly chased by Carlisle, giggling from having her sides tickled. "It's just what she wanted."

The conversation had strayed too close to emotion.

"How is work?" he asked quickly, the failsafe question that fathers the world over asked their daughters.

"It's awful, I'm going to quit," Bella replied absently as she watched Edward appear in another doorway.

His elbow was snagged by one of the elderly great aunts, and he bent down to speak with her and made her laugh, raising a fluttery hand to her throat.

Charming women even if they were in their eighties, Bella thought, the love unravelling inside her.

Charlie said nothing as he watched Bella smile at Edward, and turned to study the photograph closest to them, propped up on the third stair from the bottom. It was of Esme and Carlisle, their faces radiant with love as they pressed their cheeks together. Each was in fancy dress; Esme was a cowgirl, Carlisle unconvincing in a droopy Batman suit.

"And how is Michael?" Charlie asked, trying to draw Bella's attention back from staring at Edward, who had began laughing at someone's joke. He lifted his camera, which had been dangling from his wrist, and took some frames of family members, Carlisle on one side of the group.

"Dad, we broke up. The engagement is off." Bella watched his mouth flatten with disapproval, marvelling at how it barely affected her. She'd thought it would have been terrifying, facing his disapproval, but as she glanced back to Carlisle who was lovingly straightening Edward's collar, she knew she would recover from whatever her father told her.

Charlie began to speak, but reconsidered. He looked at Edward across the room, who was rearranging seats to face the fireplace, presumably for the older guests who were shuffling gingerly towards him, clutching champagne glasses.

"It's Edward, isn't it," Charlie stated flatly, the name spoken like one might mention a pesticide, or a disease.

"Yes Dad. It's Edward." She didn't feel the smile spread across her face.

Charlie paused for a long moment, assessing whether perhaps she was drunk.

Edward straightened from setting out the chairs and turned his face to Bella again, a movement as automatic as breathing for him. He'd been deliberately trying not to, but he couldn't help it.

Bella caught his eye and raised one hand, and he knocked over a chair awkwardly and turned to speak to Emmett.

Bella braced for his lecture, but all Charlie said was, "Just be aware that you'll get hurt. When it ends, and it _will_ end, you'll wish you'd stayed with a safe bet like Michael."

Bella looked at Charlie carefully, really looked at him for the first time in years, and realised that he was afraid for her. Afraid that she would be heartbroken, and alone, like him. He of all people knew how hard it was to live without love.

She knew that she was more scared of ending up like him, from taking no risks with her heart again.

She nodded, and surprised him by taking his hand, squeezing it. "I probably will, Dad. But I'm okay with that."

They regarded each other for a long moment.

Possibly, his feelings of parental responsibility had withered and died. More likely, he was desperately lonely, and he hadn't used his heart in a long time.

He nodded, and said softly, "you're braver than most. I wish you luck."

She looked at his hand, and surprised them both when she said, "I might come and visit you some time soon, if that would be alright."

He said nothing, but she understood it was because he couldn't.

"You let me know," she said, releasing his hand.

When Carlisle approached them they were both grateful, and she escaped to the dining room, not seeing her father's façade slip just a little as he and Carlisle shook hands at the foot of the stairs, each man understanding the other perfectly. Nothing was as beautiful as loving someone until they died, and nothing as painful. They didn't even speak, and Carlisle was called away to join Edward, but in that moment Carlisle felt as if he had received the kind of condolence that he'd really needed.

When Bella stepped into the main dining room, she saw Carlisle join Edward in front of the fireplace. She became aware that people were beginning to gather, and Rose and Emmett were passing out more champagne glasses. Bella belatedly picked up a bottle of champagne from the table and began to top up glasses.

Carlisle put on his reading glasses, and looked down at the little sheet of paper in his hand.

"Can I have your attention please," he called, and the crush became more intense as more people filed in from the hallways, craning their necks and placing their hands on each other's shoulders.

Rose snagged Bella's wrist and towed her out to stand at the side of the fireplace, in the crowd. The warmth of the fire radiated through Bella as Edward caught her eye. His eyes were the dark, desperate eyes of an addict, she could not deny it, and it made her toes curl on the carpet. He looked at her like she were something he desperately wanted but could not afford, and she could not bear it. She realised how much she preferred the way he usually looked at her, like a man surveying a particular treasure.

It's alright, she mouthed at him, and he closed his eyes momentarily, the dark line of his brows and the wild twists of his hair gilded by firelight. When he opened his eyes again, he was looking away, at the ground, his tiny frown making her want to smile.

"Thank you all for coming to say goodbye to Esme," Carlisle began, his voice quiet but ringing out easily, for everyone was silent. "It's been a difficult last year, but she bore it with such grace, and she went as gently and happily as she did everything."

Looking around at the assembled crowd, Bella saw people's eyes starting to shine with tears, and her own throat thickened.

"There's no doubt at all, as I look around at all of her family and friends, she is here with us tonight."

They all hugged themselves and held their glasses, thinking to themselves, _I hope so_.

"You all know what sort of person she was, so we won't stand on ceremony tonight. I'm grateful that you have all made it here tonight, some of you travelling long distances, to farewell a remarkable person, someone I'm proud to say was my wife."

Carlisle's voice was clear and strong, and his smile was genuine as he added,

"She had a large hand in tonight's planning, so please think of her as your honorary hostess tonight. But I must thank my sons Emmett and Edward, and my daughters Rose and Bella. They've worked very hard to pull this all together."

Bella's heart jolted in pleasure at the ease in which Carlisle referred to her as family, and she glanced at Rose, who did not seem to notice anything amiss. Edward was impassive as he stood beside his father.

Bella slid a glance sideways, but Charlie's blank expression did not reveal what he thought of Carlisle's slip.

"You all know that I loved her more than anything, but she was a stubborn little thing, hence our private funeral earlier this afternoon. She didn't want a fuss. We talked a lot about this night, during her last months. It gave her such pleasure to know that we would all be gathered together, helping each other through this time, and she loved nothing more than dictating the little details of tonight. For instance, the roses in the foyer are the Bourbon roses that have grown in these gardens for a hundred and twenty years. She was very insistent on those," he added, to the gentle chuckles of the audience. They all knew how determined she was.

Carlisle tipped his glasses onto the end of his nose and held his notes at arm's length.

"According to Esme, you read this," he said as aside to Edward, making everyone laugh. It was just like Esme had got her little bossy influence here tonight.

Edward took the sheet of paper from his father.

"I'm reading a poem by George Bernard Shaw," he said. Bella had not heard his voice in hours, and she felt Rose wrap her arm around her waist.

"I want the lighter of my seven lamps of beauty, honour, laughter, music, love, life and immortality." He paused, before continuing,

"I want my inspiration, my folly, my happiness, my divinity, my madness, my selfishness, my final sanity and sanctification, my transfiguration, my purification, my light across the sea." His beautiful voice grew rough, and he took a deep breath, before finishing,

"My palm across the desert, my garden of lovely flowers, my million nameless joys, my day's wage, my night's dream, my darling and my star."

He reflexively looked to Bella when he finished. There were tears in her eyes, just like that night so many years ago, when she'd last worn that dress.

Belatedly, he realised he had been silent a little too long, but nobody had noticed. They were all lost in their own private moment; perhaps each thinking about the things that they wanted, or had, or had lost.

Finally, it was Emmett who stepped forward, broke the silence. "I think what my mother meant by leaving us with this poem was to remind us that whilst she was taken too soon, and she had so many things she had wanted to be here for…" here, he gestured fondly to Rose, "she lived with no regrets. She lived the life she wanted, and that's the best you can hope to say when you leave this world. Please raise your glasses, and toast Esme. May we all live our best life."

"To our best life," they all echoed, raising their glasses. Silence fell as everyone drank deeply. The taste of the champagne was like ambrosia, it fizzed in the blood, and every glass was empty when Carlisle said,

"Please, continue to enjoy yourselves. The family is just going to take a moment, but we will rejoin you shortly."

The Cullens all moved into Carlisle's study.

It wasn't until Bella was settling into one of the chairs opposite his desk that she realised she had not hesitated.

Emmett closed the door quietly behind Bella and moved to pull out a chair for Rose.

Edward stood by the fireplace, toeing the ashes that were building up at the edges. The low flames were little more than orange feathers in the crumbling logs. He laid a new log on top of the pile, the shadows harsh on his face, and straightened with an inward sigh. He turned, his gaze as always alighting on Bella, before looking to Carlisle.

"Are you okay, Dad?" he asked, his customary frown touching his brow.

Bella felt like she finally understood that expression now.

"I'm fine," Carlisle reassured them all, sliding down into his upholstered chair behind the desk. "It's going well tonight." He slid his champagne glass around on the blotter.

"It's just how she wanted it." He looked up at them all, his smile so genuinely happy that they all smiled back at him without thinking.

As if on cue, they could hear one of their guests laughing outside. It was an infectiously ridiculous braying laugh, and it was Rose who began giggling first, unable to resist the urge. Soon they were all laughing, unable to stop. Every time Bella thought she could stop, she would catch Rose's eye, or see the way that Carlisle had to wipe his eyes, and she would begin again.

"She's written letters for each of us" Carlisle eventually said, as they all wiped the tears from their faces. His breath caught in his throat a little as he handed them each an envelope, a small parcel.

Their laughter had melted, and they all studied their gifts reverently, almost unable to bear opening them.

Bella gently cradled the tiny square box. A ring box, she realised, and her stomach flipped.

She opened the envelope as carefully as she could, and unfolded the letter inside. She was saddened by how Esme's normally looped, neat script was made spiky, presumably from pain.

_My darling Bella, _

_I've been__ privileged to watch you grow up into the lovely woman you are today. You have always been a part of this family, please never doubt it. You are loved by all of us, but you are loved the most by my precious son. I know that the bond has often been too hard to bear. Sometimes I wonder if I'm to blame. Before you both were born, Renee and I used to wish aloud… we'd wish that our babies would always love each other. I'm afraid I may have wished too hard? But whether or not it has been a blessing or a curse depends on how you look at it. I'm gifting you a little something to wear on your wedding day… I'm leaving you my dark jewel, darling. Please treasure it, hold it safe, and recognize it for what it is. It was always destined to belong to you. _

_Yours, _

_Esme. _

Bella's cheeks burned as she turned the little box from side to side, her heart in her throat, knowing what she would find inside. Esme's engagement ring. It must be. It _had_ to be.

The old dark sapphire, handed down through generations of Cullens. It had been hidden once; buried in a flowerpot during a war. When it was unearthed, the sapphire had been turned almost completely black. But when held up, its depths still danced and sparkled the deepest blue. Bella had loved it as a child; she and Esme would lie in bed on rainy Sunday afternoons and make up stories about it. "It belonged to a mermaid…. It was Marie Antoinette's… It was tied to a pigeon's leg…" All of Esme's nonsense stories had charmed Bella then, and made her nostalgic and oddly frightened as she pondered this incredible honour.

Bella slowly raised the lid, and was startled when pearls uncoiled smoothly out of the box and into the floor. She picked up the strand of huge, buttery pearls, puzzled. She loved these pearls, absolutely. They had been Esme's twenty-first birthday gift, and she had worn them again at her wedding. But she could not deny she was disappointed, although she reprimanded herself for it.

She looked over at Edward, backlit by the glowing lamp on the desk behind him as he read his letter.

He opened his large, square box, and blinked at the contents. He reread the note and laughed, almost bitterly, snapping the box shut again. He leaned back and rubbed his face, stretching wearily.

She could hardly bear to look at him. The ache was like a violin string, a trembling shivering in her chest. She loved him so dearly, and as she watched the sweep of his eyelashes on his cheek, she nearly laughed out loud when she realised that what Esme had really bequeathed her was Edward. A human heirloom. Esme knew that he would need Bella during this period of grieving, and every day after it.

Rose was crying over the collection of art deco hatpins that Esme had left her. Emmett was putting on the silver cufflinks that had been in the Masen family for five generations. Carlisle had an odd little parcel, but he had not opened it.

Bella fastened the pearls around her throat and for a breathless, terrifying moment she caught Edward's eye. His eyes dropped to her throat, and then to her hands.

"Thank you for my dress," she said to him quietly, and he turned away abruptly. Emmett and Rose looked on with interest.

"I've got to-," he broke off. He paused, and gazed at Bella, his eyes yearning. He abruptly left.

She let him go, knowing he needed a moment to let his emotion dissipate.

Emmett and Rose saw that Carlisle had yet to read his note, and they all stood and slipped out carefully.

Carlisle was puzzling over this present, not noticing them leave. He wondered when Esme had the strength to organize a surprise for him.

True, this envelope seemed older than the rest. He carefully slid his finger and opened the envelope, and read the single line with a swelling feeling inside; helpless love, and a tiny easing of the grief.

_And for you, my Carlisle, I leave you my heart. It only blooms for you. _

He studied the teardrop shaped lump. It looked like…. A giant hershey's kiss, wrapped in foil. It was remarkably heavy in his palm.

Realisation dawned as he peeled back the layers, and in his hands lay a huge tulip bulb, like nothing he'd ever seen before.

He smiled, and as he drank the last of his champagne in a toast to her and their life. As he turned in his chair to the window, to watch the way the branches of the nearby oak tree moved against the moon, for the first time he looked forward to Spring as he idly began to plan where he would plant it.

Meanwhile, the gathering of mourners were indeed fulfilling Rose's prediction. Champagne was being drunk like it was water, and a small cheer was heard when Emmett changed the record, turned the music up a little.

Rose caught Bella's sleeve. "He's gone down to the cellar. Go down and talk to him. I'll make sure you're not interrupted."

Bella slipped away, and made her way to the little door under the landing, which was slightly ajar. She descended down the steep steps, feeling the air grow colder as she descended into the earth.

She ran the pearl necklace through her fingertips again and again, loving the way the pearls had heated to her skin.

"Edward?" she said.

He jolted as though she had electrocuted him, and nearly dropped the bottles he was holding.

"You can't run away from me now," she said softly, teasingly.

As if on cue, the door upstairs clicked shut.

"How much do you want to bet she's just locked us in?" Edward commented dryly.

The sound of Rose's laugh was distinct amongst the creaking of the floorboards and the muffled talking and music overhead.

"Come here," Bella said. "Talk to me. Why have you been avoiding me?"

His green eyes were fevered in this half-light as he looked at her with narrowed eyes, as though he were suffering physical pain. He'd shed his jacket, and had rolled up his sleeves.

She opened her mouth to speak, but fell silent again as he moved towards her. Anyone else would have read his quivering, dark energy as anger, but she knew it was desperation and fear that made him walk towards her with heavy, deliberate steps, like a vampire in an old movie towards a transfixed woman who should have known to at least try to run.

He lifted one hand, as if to stroke the silk that wrapped her skin, but he dropped his hand and put it in his pocket with some effort instead.

"How is it possible that you look younger now, than you did back then?" he said quietly, giving in to himself a little and pressing a kiss on her cheekbone, before backing away again. He pushed away bottles and leaned on the bench.

"At least allow me this; if I make a fool of myself now, just let it stay here in this room, under the ground," he muttered roughly, scowling at the sleeve of his jacket. "I suppose you heard me and Michael arguing."

"I heard," she said.

"How much?" he returned, raising his eyes to hers.

"I think I caught the main gist of it," she said, but again he interrupted her.

"Well, it's nothing you haven't known all along."

She thought back to all the times that Michael had glossed over her occupation when introducing her to people at parties. "I suppose it's always been obvious."

Edward laughed. "There's not a single person who's ever met me that hasn't known what you mean to me."

She stilled.

"I've been thinking about it… I've been in love with you since the day I was born. Every memory I have, it involves the way I love you." He dragged his gaze quickly over her stark brown eyes, and dropped them quickly away to the rows of bottles cellared behind her, the corks forming a grid that framed her perfectly. Would make a good photograph, he thought abstractly.

"Everything you heard me say to Michael is what I should have told you, years ago. But how could you not have known? Everything that I am, and all that I will ever be, is yours. Maybe my analogy of wanting to eat you alive was too violent."

"I-" She put her hand to her throat, felt the glowing pearls almost quivering under her palm with the force of her heart.

"I'm in love with you. I love you." He leveled his eyes on her, and he gestured at her elegantly as he struggled to find the right phrase. "Look at you, standing there in red. You're like my heart, in human form. You're the good I could be. I squandered and misused our connection, and now I'm willing to pay for that."

He slumped a little, as though only the force of his love had kept him upright, and the shadows seemed to give him a moment of privacy as he turned his face into them.

"I've been trying to give you some space tonight. It's your decision, and if you do love him, I'll live with it. I'll stay here with dad and then when I can't bear being on the same continent, and when he's alright, I'll go back overseas. I'll get stronger, and I'll come back."

"No, don't," she said.

"Well, unless you don't want me to go. I'll get a place in Portland. I could try to just be your friend. I'll really, really try." He was getting all mixed up, offering her everything, cutting up sections of his heart and soul so haphazardly, handing them to her like slices of cake. It was the second time today that a man had offered to sacrifice his pride for her, and knowing how much it was costing Edward made the first tear slip like a ribbon down her cheek, and he smiled, his first genuine smile.

"We will always be best friends." He sighed. "If you decide your place isn't with me, I can still be your friend. I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to be the kind of friend you need me to be."

She wondered at the depth of his heart, whether he truly believed what he was offering. Did he really think he could stand by and watch her be with another man?

But as she looked at his profile as he turned away from her to study the window that filtered moonlight through the green, she realised he meant to try. And he would always try.

As if he knew her thoughts, he snorted.

"Even though you'll always know your best friend wants to nibble away at your edges."

She wiped away the tear. "I never heard you saying all that to Michael. I only heard him gloating about getting my virginity. I heard his tone when he said I wasn't a journalist, and how you defended me. You said I could live any life I wanted to."

Edward's throat had gotten tight, and he said nothing.

"I will never love anyone else," he finally said, his voice rough. "I want you to take all the time you need, think things through."

"I don't need to," Bella said. "You're right. I can live any life I want to, and I choose you."

Her words seemed to register with his body, because he stood up straighter and leaned towards her, but his eyes were still narrowed on the row of wine near the ceiling. So old, that wine, waiting for years until it was ready.

"I choose a life with you," she said again, softer this time, and took his hands. She linked her fingers in with his, squeezed lightly as he turned his eyes to hers sharply.

She stood on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his, but he was still and unresponsive.

"I'm going back to Portland. I have to. If I wait, it'll make it harder. But I gave my ring back to Michael outside the church, and I'll be going home to pack."

She felt sick at the memory of the pain in Michael's eyes, but of one thing she was certain: Michael would get over her, but Edward never would.

She sank her fingers into the hair at his nape, and the first hummings of belief began to warm Edward's skin, and he laughed incredulously.

"Why would you choose me? I'm a homeless nobody. I've got nothing, really. I'm probably broke."

She pressed a kiss to his cheekbone, like he had done to her. His skin was her favourite scent.

"I'd rather be homeless with you. I've learnt the hard way how hard living without you is."

The house groaned a little, and settled in its foundations, and she smiled against his closed eyelid. "And this house is the only home I've ever known."

He slid away and looked down at her for a long time. He paced away, and she leant against the bench where he had, and watched him.

Watching Edward process good news was always fascinating. First, he frowned at it. Then he took this news, and examined it, looking for cracks. Then he wondered why he would deserve anything good.

He relied completely on his senses, rather than abstract information to make something real for him, so when he abruptly pressed her back against the bench, one arm snaking up her back and into her hair, she was already laughing, the exhilaration of anticipation making her dizzy as she watched him finally realise what she had been saying to him in this moment, her entire life.

"I love you," she whispered against his mouth, and she felt him shake.

"I'll steal away everything you need, until you hate me," he tossed out, one last chance for her to escape him. "There's nothing I won't know, as soon as I touch you. Privacy. Stability. I'm jealous and an irritable prick."

She smoothed her hand down his neck. "I know. Kiss me anyway."

He pressed his mouth to hers and relished her taste. She tasted like the peach of the champagne; like home, like a juicy sweet antidote to the poison of loneliness. As he lifted her slowly, until she was seated on the bench, he unraveled in her hands.

"I will do whatever it takes-" he said gently against her throat, before tilting her backwards to kiss her heart through the red silk, loving her shiver.

"I will change," he whispered, threading his fingers through her hair.

"Don't," she said.

He was cradling her face, his tongue tasting the sweetness of her mouth, and his joy vibrated under her palms as she slid her hands up his warm arms.

"But…." He pushed aside the nearby bottles of merlot.

She paused on his shirt button and scowled at him.

"No buts."

"But your job." He slid the zip of her dress down a little, so that more of her skin spilled free. Just so he could kiss it. "I don't want to make you quit."

"I hate my job," she said firmly. "I'll get a new one."

"I hate mine too," he confessed against her cleavage. "All that war, it's nearly killed me, in more ways than one. But I deserved that awful job…"

"We'll get new ones." He paused, considering, even as his hand stroked up the outside of her thigh, hitching her skirt.

"But your work is important." She put her hand on his to halt its progression. "I don't want to take that away from you. What you do is documenting history, and giving people a voice." She swallowed against the spike of panic, but she said it anyway. "You should keep doing it. I'll always be waiting for you to come back."

"My agent said once that people usually burn out on the kind of jobs I've been doing, and that I could consider the humanitarian field." He looked down at her face, caught the spark of interest in her eye. "It's still painful, but there's at least the chance of doing some good, advocating for people who need a voice."

He breathed out against her shoulder. "You'd be good at that, Bella. _We'd _be good at that."

She tugged his hair affectionately, loving the light in his eye, the way the corner of his mouth curled into the lopsided smile she loved best.

"We'll work it out. I might need to spend some time alone," she warned him. "When I need some time in my own head."

He trailed his fingers over her skin.

_As long as you always come back to me. _

It felt like the house was trembling. Upstairs, Carlisle and Emmett helped their guests pull chairs back to the wall, and as Carlisle flipped through Esme's record collection, a few people began to dance.

Back in Portland, Michael, filled with complimentary airline alcohol and self pity, threw open the door to Bella's study, her sanctuary, and slammed on the light switch. He prowled, looking for clues that could have helped him head off this disaster. He paused in front of the doll house, her prized possession, which he had admired a few times early in their relationship, always with a kind of indulgent bemusement. Now he breathed out an expletive as he realised that the rooms were familiar; it was a replica of the Cullen house.

The key that locked the little house shut was lying on the floor of the gold room.

With a cry of pain, Michael pulled the exquisite little mansion to the floor, hearing the splintering wood and tiny shattering panes with sickness in his heart.

Upstairs, the crowd thirsted. The champagne bottles were picked up, levels examined, and every single precious drop was tipped onto tongues that craved the mysterious peachy nectar. Rose headed off Emmett and Carlisle if they attempted to go down to the cellar. In desperation, the guests filled their champagne glasses from the faucet in the kitchen, the water delicious, sweeter than sugar. The mood had tilted a little; people were laughing a little, and as they raised their faces in turn to the ceiling, each felt privately that Esme was here. She was here, amongst them, walking through the crowd, touching each on the arm.

The beautiful, horrible sound of a champagne glass smashing made everyone freeze, their smiles fading.

Then realization rippled out into the concerned faces, and they all began to laugh again, it was Carlisle who said what they had all been thinking.

"It seems Esme is still with us after all. She surely has a hand in this. Ladies and gentleman, please stay as long as you wish, but please excuse us- we need to take Rose to the hospital."

Bella wondered at the round of laughter and applause upstairs, but it felt natural and right as Edward's mouth pressed words of love onto her skin, down her neck, across her shoulders, words of forever, words of the past.

She closed her eyes and knew that her first thoughts when returning had been right.

The greatest gift in life was choice. This time, she had finally enough courage to choose the more difficult path; the blindingly green terrain rocky and difficult, a far cry from the sunlit wheaten pastures she had wandered blindly for so long. But as his fingers linked through hers and squeezed, and he pondered her thoughts, he silently told her that whilst it would be difficult, every day of their lives, as long as they held each other, they would not fall.

One day, the perfect photograph of Edward and Bella, the proof of his love, would hang above the bed in the gold room at the end of the hall. He hadn't been able to bear to let others see something so private; and instead, he and Bella would sleep underneath the best photograph of his life. The irony that he hadn't even taken it would never fail to make him smile.

Esme's final note that had accompanied the tiny, delicate treasure she'd bequeathed him would stay pressed in the pages of Wuthering Heights.

_Look after this for a while. It's not yours to keep, but you know that. _

Those things would all come to pass, along with thousands of nights, endless orbits of the sun, and every shadow that fell across Bella's face. But now, down in the cellar of an old house, they leaned against each other, the relief of surrender more potent than a lifetime of unrequited love, lust, longing.

And Rose, who was alternating between giggling and shrieking, felt something digging into her palm during one particularly vicious contraction. She looked down at her palm and realised what she held.

"Oh dear," she said to Emmett, giggling through the thrilling pain, waggling the old fashioned key. "I seem to have locked Bella and Edward in the basement."

As Emmett howled with laughter, Carlisle smiled. "I doubt they'll even notice."

* * *

**The End. **


End file.
